


Boy With Apple

by oneinspats



Series: Boy With Apple, or, Eve in the Garden with Snake [1]
Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: Art Theft, Boy With Apple, M/M, tw: homophobic slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The additional adventures of M. Gustave H and Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis, Gustave's reluctant and terribly annoyed compatriot. With cameos from other beloved people. </p><p>That painting, the root of all problems, the bane of Dmitri's existence, just won't go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Signifies

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 _Boy With Apple,_ prized painting, source of controversy, stolen by more than one hand, rested content behind the front desk of the Grand Budapest Hotel. The painting became, in its own way, like the hotel, an _institution._ Guests would stop to admire it. Would coo over the effort evidently put into the piece. The sordid story behind its acquisition. They would flick eyes over to the owner of the piece and the building it was housed in. The owner would just smile and wave.

Over all, Monsieur Gustave H considered it the crown jewel of his beloved hotel.

 

 

 

Entre a cool autumn morning. The shift was changing and Zero Mustafa, former lobby boy extraordinaire, was going over the schedule for the day. He looked up and frowned down the lobby. There was something wrong. He took out his watch and checked the time. Agatha came over with coffee and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

‘You’re looking upset.’ She set the cup down. Her hair was golden threads in early morning light. She was in pale blues and pinks. There was already flour on her hands.

Zero, ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

‘That’s good.’ He went back to the ledger before him. ‘Good coffee.’

Agatha, ‘Thank you. Mr Sergio’s new supply.’

She leaned in for a second kiss when hands were spread on the counter before them. Hands in black gloves. Their eyes followed it up to a grey fur coat up to a pristine dark green tie up to an impeccable goatee and moustache and blue eyes and off coloured sandy hair.

‘Welcome to the Grand Budapest Hotel, sir. How may I help you?’ Zero, who didn’t believe in premonitions or foreshadowing or fate, looked at the face before him and thought that this was how tarot cards were invented. And tealeaf reading. His mother would do tea leaf reading, sometimes. In the winter months. When there wasn’t much to do with the goats past sunset.

‘My name is Mr Ansgar von Diefenbach. There should be a reservation under my name.’

‘Von Diefenbach…yes, room one seventeen…’

It went on. And the further it went the more unsettled Zero became. He fidgeted with his pen, something no self-respecting concierge would ever do, and even forgot to have fresh flowers sent to the room of Countess de Fiore. In his mind was Monsieur Gustave’s face and it was a face of extreme disappointment.

 

‘My dear Zero, whatever is the matter?’ Speaking of the man, there he was standing in front of the young concierge with a glass of Champaign and a hand rolled cigarette. He smelled like his usual l’air de panache as well as an undercurrent of American tobacco. Lightly flavoured with vanilla. It was a pungent mixture.

‘I don’t know M Gustave.’

‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

‘I mean that I don’t know. I have a feeling. A feeling that something it going to happen.’

‘Oh dear.’ The Champaign was sipped. ‘What sort of feeling is it?’

‘Something is going to happen. Soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘Soon.’

‘Well, keep your eyes out. Tell me if you see any funny business.’

They parted ways – Zero back to work and Gustave upstairs to his waiting entourage of old, blonde women. Watching over them both was _Boy With Apple._ To Zero, that evening as he left his shift, he thought that maybe the apple was more green and the boy’s eyes more alive. He understood why there was so much conflict over the picture. It was a masterpiece.

 

 

‘I think the apple means something.’ He said to Agatha. She was sitting in their bed reading the book he had bought for her before they were married. She looked up and nodded.

‘Probably,’ the book was set aside. ‘These things usually do signify.’


	2. Apple to be Green, Boy's Eyes Pricked in Golden Brown

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

The day dawned. Gustave spent the morning in his robe and lounging in bed.  He was still adjusting to the lack of the need to wake at a sparrow’s fart. So, it was still that milky grey of the early morning sky and he was smoking and thinking about what might come with sunrise. And the day before. Zero’s premonition. Well, the dear boy was working quite hard lately. 

Next to him the wife of the Earl of Essex stirred. She rolled over, her liver marked skin bared to forgiving light. It occurred to Gustave, as he snubbed out the dud, that something was wrong. And it had nothing, whatsoever, to do with Zero’s premonition (bless the boy).

 

 

 

The day continued to dawn. Mr. von Diefenbach made his way down to the foyer and, under the cover of early morning peace, stared at the vision that was _Boy With Apple._ He admired the perspective. The youth, the languid energy of the piece. He reasoned that Hoytl had meant for the work to be seen up close. Such attention to detail spoke to this. He glanced about and took out a telegram from his pocket. He read it. Read it again. Looked back up at the painting.

In that quiet, private, still, grey autumn morning Ansgar von Diefenbach smiled.

 

 

 

Zero arrived at the front desk around seven. He greeted the lobby boy and other staff members. Brushing dust from his cuffs he opened the hotel ledger and went over the room assignments. Making notes next to different names he looked up with eyes wide.

Agatha was in front of him with coffee and a book. She was looking up with the same expression he wore.

‘It’s gone,’ she whispered.

‘Gone.’

‘Gone.’

They looked at each other. Very carefully Agatha placed her book and coffee down and closed her eyes. When she opened them again she was nodding to herself.

‘It did signify, then. I’ll tell Gustave, you have to manage the hotel. I’ll tell him then I will make macaroons. Then we will – ‘

‘We’ll get it back.’ Zero said.

‘Yes.’

She turned on her heels, skirt flared out, and marched up the stairs.

 

 

 

‘I can’t believe it,’ Gustave declared.

‘We’re very sorry, sir.’

‘Of course, of course, it’s not your fault. I’m just, if you’ll excuse me.’

Agatha left. When the door had closed Gustave sat down and stared at his hands. He turned them over, looked at the back then at the palms. He picked a piece of fluff off his trouser leg. He was half dressed and felt like he had been run over by a wild elk – full horns ahead.

His precious painting – stolen! And from right under their noses. The one thing that reminded him of Madam D. Though, if he thought about it, there was something else in the painting. Something he couldn’t put his finger one – but regardless, it meant something. That young man holding his apple with his rich, opulent surroundings. If he stood far enough away from it, he could imagine that the boy was him. Once. A long time ago. Only, without the nice clothes and furniture.

  

Zero had no family. This Gustave knew. He could make a short list about the important things he knew about Zero. Short though it was it contained the essence of the young man.

Loyal.

Brave.

Reliable.

Quiet.

Hard working.

He didn’t need more. That brief account was enough. By now, Gustave was fixing his tie and shrugging his coat on. Too lightweight, he thought. I’ll have to get down my heavier one, soon.

 

He thought about this as he went downstairs. He didn’t see the Duchess of Parma waving, he didn’t see the fluttering of Ms Von Trapp’s fan, he didn’t see the smiles directed at him over teacups and scones. What he saw was the red of the carpet, his black shoes, the sight of dark grey trousers. When he looked up he saw white pillars and purple accents and golden handrails and the hotel – oh the hotel being so very _very._

 

A winter coat and a summer coat. What a novelty. Wealth, he found, didn’t blow him away as much as he thought it might do. Instead, it sort of sat about and filled the corridors of his mind with musings. The corridors he usually kept scrupulously clean.

 

I have summer coats and autumn coats and winter coats and spring coats.

Zero has only one.

Last year I only had one.

 

 

 

He arrived at the desk with these thoughts but they cleared as soon as he viewed the empty spot where _Boy with Apple_ had been. 

‘Guest list, now.’

It was provided. He scanned through it – all known to him personally or by word of mouth. He stopped, looked at a name, oh no. Ansgar von Diefenbach. That bastard. That coy, German bastard.

‘How was he let in?’ He demanded, his finger jabbing at the name. ‘He is never to be let in. Not after what he did to the Crown Ritz.’

Zero fluttered at his elbow. He didn’t know. He didn’t recognize the man. And, to be fair, M. Gustave, Von Diefenbach’s name wasn’t on the banned guests list. Nor was anyone with the first name Ansgar. But, he did have a feeling about the man when he saw him.

‘He didn’t look me in the face, sir. Instead he looked just above me.’

‘To the painting.’

‘Oh yes, yes that would be it.’

‘Damn!’ Fists slammed down on the desk. ‘That fucker. I knew he would strike again. First the Grand Ritz, then the unfortunate affair of the clock at the Magnificent Xanadu – and now this.’

Zero, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘How could I have been so blind? This can’t be real.’

‘No, sir.’

‘What is there to do?’

‘Sir?’

‘Yes, Zero?’

‘Where would he have taken it?’

Gustave waved Zero over to a chair and they secluded themselves as best they could. The hotel owner rubbed his temples. Out loud he wondered where to start. Where to start? 

‘Von Diefenbach is the world’s foremost art collector. As in, he collects art for other people and uses less than scrupulous methods. The Grand Ritz had their crowning piece, _Girl with Serpent by the Well_ stolen five or six years ago. Then the Xanadu had their original, antique German pendulum clock “misplaced” about two years ago. Since then those two works, as well as countless others, have mysteriously ended up in the hands of private collectors and usually there are impediments for retrieval. I know Mehmet of the Xanadu was heart broken. Each time these occurrences happen Von Diefenbach appeared.’

‘Then why isn’t he on the banned guest list?’

A shrug. Gustave’s eyes were somewhere else. They were tracing the pattern on the carpet. They were inspecting the tables and the chairs and the early morning guests – slowly they climbed up patterned pillars to the open ceiling. The gold and the marble and the intenseness of the Grand Metropolitan was eaten alive by his eyes.

‘It wouldn’t matter,’ he whispered. ‘He’d have taken it one way or another. We’ve tried banning him. I doesn’t work.’

Standing, Zero said in a voice that was firm and decided, ‘M Gustave, I will retrieve your painting for you. Even if I have to go to Paris or Madrid or even New York. I will get it back.’

His boss waved him down. No, no, the last time we tried to leave the country I was almost shot because of your status. You’re staying here. But _Boy with Apple_ is coming home, damnit. It’s coming home if it’s the last thing I do.

 

 

 

Gustave left in the twilight hours. He said the night train would treat him better than the others. A bottle of ’10 chardonnay was in his bags along with the usual necessities. He said farewell in a solemn manner, left several poem suggestions to Zero for the nightly sermon, told Agatha to write to him if she saw anything suspicious, and told them both that the Grand Metropolitan was in their hands and he had never felt more sure about the safety of the hotel before.

When he could no longer be seen, and the memories of the car taking him away faded, it began to snow. Light. Just an early flurry for the early October month. Agatha said to Zero, as they readied for bed, I think things are cyclical. Wasn’t Madam D murdered in October? Wasn’t the whole thing with _Boy with Apple_ last October? Was it only a year? It seems so long.

When she slept she dreamt of a painter’s brush and the smell of alcohol. She could see Amsterdam – or what she imagined Amsterdam to be – and heard what she imagined Dutch to sound like and down a medieval-cum-Renaissance street walked a lone man with a ratty coat and a canvas. He turned to look at her, this artist that was now so famous and so posthumously wealthy, and his face was one she would spend a week thinking about. For upon it were tears and in his hand an apple.


	3. A piece of sun

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

 

I have seen from my window  

the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.   

Sometimes a piece of sun  

burned like a coin between my hands.   

I remembered you with my soul clenched  

in that sadness of mine that you know.

 

_Excerpt from “We Have Lost Even” by Pablo Neruda_

 

 

 

 

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Low Latin, Zelosus

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis was in Venice. He had had enough of mountains and snow and steep cliffs and sheer, vertical land. Instead, he took to old canals and city-wide walks and private concerts in order to console himself and lick his wounds. His grievances he would complain about to any willing to listen. 

His sisters were divided on this – Marguerite was willing enough to venture from Zubrowka, former republic, in the vain and old-fashioned hope of meeting someone to marry. The other two sisters – Carolina and Laetizia – were less willing. Carolina was still in Zubrowka and Laetizia was somewhere between the alps and the coast of the Adriatic.

‘I think Count Merlo will do, don’t you brother?’

Dmitri nodded. He turned a page of the paper. It ruffled. Marguerite looked at the breakfast spread between them. Her brother turned another page then the coffee disappeared behind the headlines.

‘He was very charming at the ball last night.’

She picked up a croissant then puts it back down.

‘And attentive, now that I think on it. He asked me to dance. Twice.’

She added cream to her coffee and looked out the window. There was a canal within view, which was not something of a surprise, and the sun was halfway up the sky. Behind her came the sound of a match being struck then the smell of cigarette smoke. Leaning over she opened a window.

‘That might be worse,’ Dmitri said. She looked back to him and found the paper down and his usual annoyance firmly in place.

‘You’re not happy.’ She said.

‘Nor are you. But here we are.’

They each drank their coffee. Dmitri smoked. Marguerite looked out the window. The morning passed.

 

 

 

Count Merlo was much akin to his name – small, flighty, and all black hair and black eyes. He was shorter than Dmitri by a good head and as he entered the brother’s study he found himself craning his neck up to the stoic Zubrowkan. There were stories, he had heard. He was distinctly not thinking on those stories.

‘I wanted to ask permission first, you see.’ He explained with hands wringing. ‘It seemed that since you’re the closest male relative…’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s just – I will treat her with respect and her name will never suffer under my care.’

Dmitri stared for a long moment before stalking over to his desk. Merlo felt that the man might have some relation to the _felis catus_ only, perhaps, less domesticated. The taller count tapped the desk with intent. Merlo moved closer and stood in the centre. Above them was a picture. He looked up to it and saw a woman sitting by a well. Around her feet was a serpent, emerald green, and looking at him with dead reptile eyes.

‘You understand that she has no dowry? Only the allowance secured to her under our late father’s will. The, ah, confusion with my mother’s will has deprived her of her rightful inheritance.’

‘I understand.’

‘Good. Well, I see nothing wrong with the match.’ His wrist was flicked. ‘Carry on.’

Count Merlo left and Dmitri sank back into the chair. His eyes closed and he sucked in a sharp breath. This was not how things were meant to be. But, in the last year he had had a hell of an education on how things were not meant to be.

He opened his diary and found the date. A gathering at _Marquis_ de Nascimbene’s at eight – but his day was empty until then. Deciding that a walk was in order he gathered his coat and stuck his head into the parlour.

‘I’m going out, Marguerite.’

‘Do you want company?’

‘Not really. Oh, Count Merlo called. He asked if he may court you.’

His sister blinked at him. Dmitri shrugged.

‘I said it was fine. I assume he’ll call at some point. Just leave the door to the parlour open or something. We have enough servant’s gossip without more.’

‘Of course.’

‘Ciao.’

 

 

He walked. The day was neither here nor there. A muggy, sort of clinging feeling began as he neared the Rialto. He paused and recited a few lines of Shakespeare to himself. The rialto, these days, rarely had any news that interested him. But, there was a coffee shop and little corner than he had made his own where he would sit and write. Occasionally he would read. He would certainly smoke.

Marguerite called it a dirty habit and despaired of him every finding a wife with his moodiness and impatience. He told her, repeatedly, that he had no wish to marry, thank you very much. You’ve seen our mother, he had sneered. You know what marriage gets you.

 

 

The café was much as it always was. Smoke filled and quiet. Tourists would linger, flick eyes in, meet the unwelcoming stare of the few Venetian residents still in Venice, and move on. Dmitri ordered his usual and settled in for a slow afternoon.

‘Newspaper?’ Piero offered. His waiter’s white was smudged. Dmitri’s home country paper was thrust under his nose. He took it and skimmed the headlines. Nothing of interest. ‘I have some news for you.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Nascimbene’s gala this evening, you are attending?’

The count raised his eyebrows. Piero smiled and said that he was only asking because apparently there was going to be a to-do that night. Anyone who was anyone in Venice was to be there. He even wrote to England to have Huxley grace the scene. No luck, though. Hemmingway declined as well. He would have mailed to France for Bernanos if it had been in his power. Anyway, I see you want me to skip to the point. The to-do is to be at midnight, whatever it is, and I want you to tell me the details tomorrow when you come in. I need my tit-tat you know.

Dmitri said he knew. Only writers? Did he manage a rare edition for his library? One of those creepy, potentially-human skin folios that Oxford hides away? Or something else?

‘Oh no, there are musicians and artists and philosophers. Not to mention the usual socialites. Then the titles – you, Count Merlo, the Nicchis, Colonnas of Rome even, there are rumours that a Medici might make an appearance.’

‘Well that would certainly be something. Look, you let me do my crossword in peace, Piero, and I will let you know the details tomorrow.’

The waiter laughed, head thrown back and hands on his stomach. ‘Sure, sure, signor, as you wish. Just remember,’ he tapped his forehead. ‘Tittle-tattle and all the delicious details tomorrow. We’ll open a bottle of the best brandy for it.’

Dmitri nodded and gave a wave. Then the paper was opened and he turned to the back. One across, “From Low Latin, _zelosus_ ” he hummed to himself, counted the letters, then wrote in “jealousy”.


	5. Our Personal War

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

 

It was evening. Evening and something warm and sweet and the air in the hall smelled of cardamom and cinnamon. Women were in silk and lace and pearls and diamonds. Men were in suites and hats and with white gloves – roses in breast pockets. Dmitri stood with Marguerite and her erstwhile suitor. They were all doe eyes and laughs. Dmitri drank more and stared at the crowd.

There was a Colonna and a Medici exchanging sour looks. The Nicchis arrived late and caused a stir. Their youngest daughter was considered the jewel of Venice – possibly of the entire peninsula of Italy. Dmitri thought he looked like a portrait of Carolina Bonaparte he had once seen. She danced every dance and played the piano and was making a success of the night. Her mother preened. Her father discussed the coming war with the other businessmen present.

The house of the Marquise de Nascimbene was elegant and very much in the Venetian Renaissance style and so it borrowed a bit from Rome and little from Constantinople and a little from Vienna. Despite the shambling together of different influences it work remarkably well. It was certainly more airy and light and aesthetic than Schloss Lutz had ever been. The southern countries, in Dmitri’s opinion, had gotten their architecture right. Despite all their other vices and faults.

 

Elegant, was how the evening was being described. The lady Marietta Colonna was on his arm and asking about his home. His family. His business.

‘It is so rare that we have northerners staying here for any length of time. The English come for their health and are gone after a season. The French come for inspiration and mostly keep to themselves. The Germans arrive, gruffly comment on our buildings, then leave before the summer heat can do any lasting harm.’

‘I decided that a change was in order.’

She waited for more. Then she nodded to herself.

‘I understand, I sometimes think a relocation would be a good decision for me. My husband disagrees.’

The conversation moved on and continued to be primarily one sided. After another few topics are passed with little depth or discourse Marietta Colonna bowed and pleaded her daughter her excuse. Dmitri watched her leave, a wake of rose perfume lingering behind her. Her dress shimmered and was all stars against golden light. She had pressed his arm firmly and had smiled up at him in that certain way he had learnt meant _something._ He went, Ah, and thought that maybe he could have handled it a little better had he decided to care.

 

 

The evening continued to continue. There were dances and chatter and the deserts were brought out on long silver trays. Comfits, tarts, Turkish delights, macaroons all piled high and arranged artfully.

A man asked Dmitri, ‘What do you think of our war?’

‘Our war?’

‘The one we’re soon to have.’

‘I couldn’t say.’ He shifted. He didn’t know what else to add. The man intoned that it was time they got what was coming. Dmitri never found out who _they_ were.

 

 

Eventually, after a little too much port and far too many lingering glances that said “ask me for a dance”, midnight tolled. The count found himself towards the back of the crowd looking in with an outsider’s view. The Marquis stepped up. He was on a small platform, which was positioned at the centre of the back of the room. A large curtain hung against the wall. It was all rich velvet and so very red. The room was red and gold and warmed marble with glittering candle light. Outside was stars and a sliver of a moon. A summer night in an autumnal month.

‘Now, some of you may be wondering why I called this event. There have been whispers, I know, in all the cafés and restaurants and salons. Titillating I am sure.’

The crowd tut-ed accompanied by a ripple of laughter.

‘But,’ he held his pianist fingered hands up. ‘Tonight I am going to reveal to you a work of art that has captured the imagination of men and women for centuries. It is divine, it’s beauty cannot be spoken of with mere words. The symphonies of Bach and Beethoven and Liszt pale in comparison when put alongside this work. Truly, this is the masterpiece of an age.

Ladies, gentlemen, I cannot tell you what gift of heavenly providence brought it to my hands, but rest assured, this is my prize, my jewel, my crown. And I have decided to honour you all with a private viewing.’ Whipping around his hands were flourishing up and out and the curtains were yanked back.

 

First, Dmitri saw the wall. The wood and the marble and the candle light reflecting. Then he saw his sister’s face. Then he looked. He truly looked. His mouth opened to yell but someone beat him to it.

‘Hey! That’s my painting you thieving son of a bitch! 

Dmitri, ‘That’s my painting which Gustav, that thieving fucking fruit, stole and you stole from him!’

 

 

They ended up being escorted out together.

‘Well, darling, that wasn’t how I imagined it would go.’

 

 

 

It had begun to drizzle. After the initial punch in the face, which Dmitri gifted to Gustav who had then returned it, the two found themselves sitting on the edge of a canal slowly becoming damp.

‘What are you doing here?’ Dmitri groused as he tenderly poked his nose.

‘Getting my painting back.’

‘ _My_ painting.’

‘Not according to your mother’s will.’

‘Yes, well, she always was a bit of a bitch.’

Gustav blinked at him, his face turned into something looking affronted. He shook his head but kept quiet. The canal made dripping noises. The spitting rain was turning into a proper dropping, plunking rain. Gustav smelled like l’air de panache and was wearing bright colours. Dmitri grumbled to himself – it was something about goddamned fucking concierges taking his rightful fucking inheritance.

Gustav patted his shoulder, Dmitri shied away, ‘well, if you hadn’t murdered her, dear.’

‘She was taking too long to die.’ A huff. ‘And you never had to grow up with the witch.’

‘No, I suppose I didn’t.’

A boat drifted by. They watched it for a moment before clambering to their feet, dusting themselves off, and heading further into the rain.

 

Venice at night was quiet. There was little revelry, little activity on the ink black waters or the sandy white squares. They wandered around looking up at church towers and admiring little alters and the quaintly painted faces of saints and biblical figures. In front of a statue of the Virgin Mary Dmitri pointed to her cloak.

‘It’s blue. In the Medieval Era, in their paintings, they often used this rich blue to denote wealth and importance. Both of the subject as well as of the patron. It was a very expensive colour, you see.’ He paused. Spun to face Gustav and asked if he had ever looked at the apple in the painting. Gustav said no. Ah, a smirk, you should, sometime. It’s important.

‘If I ever get it back.’

There was a sidelong look and a pout. Changing the subject the count declared he knew a place that would still be serving drinks and he could get them in. But only if Gustave could behave like a fucking gentleman instead of a fucking commoner.

‘Well, if they let you in darling, I’m sure they’ll let me in.’

‘Don’t make me give you a second black eye.’

‘I’ll be symmetrical then. I’ll be a work of Renaissance art. Symmetry and perfect form.’

‘Oh fuck off.’

 

 

A bottle of the best amaretto was placed on the small table between them. Gustave settled into the chair and crept his feet closer to the fire. The room was very old and he couldn’t tell if it was truly old or something they were attempting for. He decided, after the drinks were poured, that it must be fake because if it was real he wouldn’t even make note of it.

A flick of pride and he smiled to himself. No one has such thoughts in his hotel. He makes damn well sure they don’t.

‘Cheers,’ he raised his glass. Dmitri followed suit half a minute late. ‘Don’t be so dour, darling. It’s not your fault we got kicked out. I am just as guilty. Though that guard needed it, I think. He probably doesn’t get knocked on the head often enough.’

‘Do you never stop talking?’

‘Of course.’

Silence. They finished their first drink and moved on the second. Dmitri watched the small fire die down and reasoned that was well enough because my god it was a bit hot in here. And the fact that the fucking fag of concierge kept staring wasn’t helping. Asshole.

‘So,’ Gustave drew it out slowly. ‘How are we getting it back?’

‘Tell the police he stole it.’

‘Ah, well, while you were sulking by the canal I had a look at the papers he so rudely shoved in my face and I think something was done.’ They were retrieved from inside his coat and unfolded. On the papers written, plain as anything, was a deed of sale between M Gustave H and the Marquis de Nascimbene. The object in question was none other than the ill-fated painting _Boy With Apple._ ‘I would never part with it, of course, and if I did I’d damn well sell it for more than 9,000 klubecks.’

‘I fucking hope so.’

The papers were snatched up and inspected closely. The count asked if the money was actually deposited. Gustave said he’d wire his bank in the morning. They both looked at the papers for a good long while then a third drink was poured. Drained. And a fourth. They left the bar when the early rays of light were appearing in the sky and slowly, haltingly, made their way back to their respective residences.

 

 

 

Story of _Boy With Apple:_ Hoytl (spelled Hoytle in some old documents) was in love with the subject. This was the oldest story Dmitri had found about the painting. He remembered being a boy himself and sitting in the library looking up at it. He would imagine that the little note pinned to the door behind the boy was a secret note from an assassin and that the dark deed would be committed the next day.

Another story was that the apple was akin to the one that showed up in so many fairy tales and legends – it was poisoned and as soon as the boy took a bite he fell into a deep sleep for two hundred years. He’d create a random number, on other days, something like two hundred thirty two. Because do all curses have easy to remember numbers? If he was cursing someone he’d make sure that the number was a pain to recall.

But the story of the actual painting was the Johannes Van Hoytl the Younger was in love with the model who posed as the boy. Dmitri frankly thought the story disgusting. However, despite the disgust of the count, it remained. Legend had it that the boy spurned the artist for another man. A lord or duke or something along those lines and became the lord’s squire and lover. Despite his despair, Hoytl could not bring himself to harm the product of his passion and so kept the painting to himself for years. It was only sold after his death and even then, it had to be rescued from the depths of his shop where it had sat for years, neglected, with a simple white sheet over it.

His mother had said, ‘they say he didn’t harm the product of his love but they’re wrong.’ She would then point the apple. ‘Look carefully at the apple.’ And little Dmitri had. Very carefully. He had squinted in gaslight until he caught it.

‘It’s rotting.’ He had declared with solemnity.

‘That’s right. Rotting. Love rots all things that come into contact with it.’ She stood back and looked at her son. Eyed him up and down then shook her head. ‘It’s a shame you don’t learn the lesson till you’re too old for it to do you any good.’

But if Dmitri knew one thing about his mother it was that she loved love and everything associated with love. She loved being in love, she loved the idea of love, she loved falling in love and out of love – everything to do with love she loved.

 

To the mirror in his room, as he stood in front of it rubbing tired eyes and looking distinctly hung over, he said, ‘I think she just liked to say shit because it sounded good.’

‘What’s that?’ His sister called through oak doors.

‘Fuck off!’

‘Fine!’ Her heels clipped down the hall. Each one was a dagger to his head. He stared at himself some more, decided to shave after he took a nap, and promptly dragged his carcase off to bed.


	6. Lingering coffee and soy crudo aie.

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

 

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

_‘What?’_

‘Dmitri, are you up?’

‘I am _now_.’

‘There’s a man at the door who says he needs to speak with you.’

Dmitri opened his eyes and stared up at the blurry ceiling. His mouth was cotton and his head was a hammer banging repeatedly against a broken piece of wood. The rest of him was in a similar, unenviable condition.

‘Tell him to fuck off.’

‘He said you’d say that. Dmitri, he seems very charming.’

His brain clicked and stuttered to on. The world swirled some more. He tried to sit up but didn’t get very far. The watch on his bedside read ten. This was really too, too much.

‘Is he flirting with you?’

A shocked gasp. Marguerite replied, _Certainly not._ Which Dmitri interpreted as fuck yes he is that little piece of fucking scum. His hand rested on his head. It was warm, too warm, so he moved it off to the side where it flopped uselessly against the bed.

Behind the door there were whispered voices, a quick conversation and it was opened slowly. Gustave’s voice, the voice Dmitri _did not_ want to hear, asked if he could come in.

‘You may not.’

‘Look, this is rather urgent.’

‘Go away.’

‘I require your assistance.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘For a little bit of a job.’

‘Go the fuck away you fucking fruit.’

Primly, ‘I would appreciate it if you didn’t call me that.’

‘I would appreciate it if you got the fuck out of my room.’

Gustave neared the bed and set a glass of water on the side table. He then scooted the corner chair over and was seated primly on it. His trousers were pressed and he wore a full suite with cravat and a matching pin. Dmitri continued to lay in a state of agony and anger accompanied by the clothes from the previous night, up to and including his shoes.

The former concierge took in the scene. This would not do, he decided. If only his loyal Zero had been able to come, then none of this would be necessary. The man on the bed opened his eyes yet again and turned to stare at Gustave in a blood shot fashion. The stare was probably meant to be a glare, the older man thought. If only the hangover wasn’t hampering all facial mobility. He really ought to drink the water and maybe take a cup of coffee and eat some toast.

‘Would you care for some toast?’

‘No.’

‘How about the water. It’ll help.’

‘Not seeing your ugly mug would help.’

‘I wouldn’t say that I’m ugly. You know, in my prime I was thought to be quite handsome.’

Dmitri stared. Gustave stared back.

‘It’s true,’ offered the older man helpfully.

Dmitri continued to stare. Gustave moved the cup of water closer. The count turned his stare from the man to the water. If the water had been human it would probably have trembled. As it was, it continued to be an unperturbed glass of liquid.

Hauling himself into a sitting position Dmitri admitted defeat. The water was nice, he allowed that. And the piece of toast that the fucking fag had magic-ed out of thin air. That was also pretty nice, actually, the more he thought about it.

‘There’s coffee to be brought in if you’d like.’ Gustave said, leaning into the chair, no longer perching on the edge like an over eager bird.

‘This isn’t your fucking hotel.'

‘No, but you have a very attentive sister and a charming staff. Coffee?’

A grunt. Gustave assumed it was a yes. The coffee was procured and settled on the table between them. Dmitri had managed to get himself into a full sitting position with feet firmly on the floor and a blanket around his shoulders. He thought that maybe he should take his shoes off, they were starting to pinch, but thought better of it. He wasn't sure he'd be able to bend over without sicking up and if there was one thing he would not do it was sick up in front M. Gustave H. That fucking prick. 

‘What do you want?’ Groused as he grudgingly accepted the coffee.

‘I want you to help me steal a painting.’

Gustave watched as Dmitri sipped his coffee. The count looked at him with blank eyes and a tugging frown under his currently messy moustache. Another sip was taken. Gustave contemplated the room. It was nicely situated, no full sun yet plenty of light. High ceilings, probably seventeenth century. The furniture was old but not stuffy. He declared it pleasant and completely liveable. There were certainly aspects which reminded him of Schloss Lutz – the taste in furniture, the colouring, the constant sour looks directed at him by the occupant.

‘Why don’t you like me, Dmitri?’

‘Because you stole my fucking painting _and_ my fucking inheritance.’

‘Before that.’

‘Because you’re a conniving, smug, arrogant, fortune shark of a little faggot.’

Gustave nodded and poured more coffee. Out loud he said, so it’s really for no reason at all. That’s all right. I like you, if that’s any consolation. Don’t choke, darling. You’re hardly fit for any extreme reactions in your state. Now that we have that out of the way –

‘And you fucked my mother!'

Gustave nodded, ‘Yes, we’ve been over this. I go to bed with all my friends.’

‘And you’re disgusting.’

‘I’m sorry you think so. Now, changing the subject darling. I need you to help me steal _Boy with Apple_ from the unworthy and lecherous hands of Signor Nascimbene. Tonight should be as good a time as any. Diefenbach is around, I’m sure. He’s been hired as an art collector for Nascimbene –‘

‘Wait, wait, hold on. There were papers last night I think.’

‘Yes. The false documents of sale. I wired my bank – the money was deposited and the forgery of my signature is perfect.’

‘Oh.’

‘Quite, now, I have a plan to liberate _Boy with Apple_ but I can’t do it alone. Will you set aside your rather disturbing and completely unfounded hatred of me and help with this endeavour? For art?’

Dmitri lingered over his coffee far longer than necessary. His fingers slid along the edge of the cup and Gustave’s eyes followed the movement. Frankly, Gustave’s eyes noted _everything_ and that always bothered the count. Mostly because he had a distinct feeling that the concierge maybe looked at everything but certainly remembered only the important details. In this room, right now, Dmitri had no idea what the important details were.

He set the cup down.

He sighed.

‘ _Fine,_ but don’t get any funny ideas that I fucking like you or anything.’

‘Never, darling. Now. I’ll let you rest some more and we’ll do dinner at seven at Ambrogi’s. The gondoliers know where it is. Off of San Marco's.’

Gustave left as quietly as he entered. The lingering odour of l’air de panache settled over the earthy tones of coffee and the homey feeling of toast. The water was half full. Or half gone. Either way, he made an effort to finish it.

 

 

Drifting back to sleep Dmitri dreamt of a tree growing out of the Grand Budapest and all around them were apples. At one point Gustave hands one to him. He takes it, eats it, and when he woke he felt that he had somehow fallen but couldn’t figure out why.


	7. Our experience lies in our veins

.  .  .

 

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

We contain all the passions   
and all the vices   
and all the suns and stars,   
chasms and heights,   
trees, animals, forests, streams.   
This is what we are.   
Our experience lies   
in our veins,   
in our nerves.   
We stagger.   
Burning   
between grey blocks of houses.   
On bridges of steel.   
Light from a thousand tubes   
flows around us,   
and a thousand violet nights   
etch sharp wrinkles   
in our faces.

  

_“Song” by George Grosz_

 

 

 

_.  .  ._

 

 

_.  .  ._

 

 

 


	8. The Room of Royal Women

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

 _What was Schloss Lutz now?_ Gustave looked at the words. He wanted to write but nothing was coming and Dmitri was late. Probably on purpose. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell, with that man.

He licked the end of the pen and doodled a circle in the corner to make the ink flow. He tried again.

_What was Schloss Lutz now? But a decaying remembrance of our decadent past. A decaying remembrance that we, as a nation, had once mattered._

He wanted to ask Dmitri what it was like, growing up knowing that two hundred years ago your family had been something great and now what was it? Nothing. European nobility with no consequence or power outside of the little sphere that was Zubrowka.

_There are hallways edged in sweet memories and shadowed ghosts. At night they creep and creak through ancient doors and look upon their decedents and wonder “how did we come to this?”_

‘What are you writing?’

The notebook snapped closed. The pen disappeared into his inner coat pocket. The book was pushed to the side. He made a mental note to tear out those pages in case Dmitri decided to snoop. He wouldn’t put it past the dark eyed and haired man who was currently raising eyebrows at him.

‘Nothing. Just a spot of amateur prose.’

‘A love poem to one of your old widows?’

‘Something like that.’

Dmitri snorted, nodded to the waiter who poured him a glass of wine. He muttered, well, at least you go the full run with your lecherous wooing. What are you having?

‘The salmon sounded good.’

A menu was briefly inspected before the count pushed it to the side in favour of his wine. It was a white. Buttery, soft, a little sweet. He couldn’t decide if he liked it or not. Normally his glass would be full of the big bodied reds. The loud, bright, dry of Italian wines. But this was different. Gentler. Quieter. Low notes that lingered on the sides of his tongue. It was a wine that personified Gustave. His mind changed subjects.

‘So, you’re mad plan is to steal back my painting which you originally stole from me.’

‘You do keep harping on about it.’

‘It was my family’s. Not yours.’

‘Well, your mother did will it to me.’

‘Probably under the influence of something. I refuse to believe she was in her right mind.’

They placed their orders and settled in for a long evening. Reopening the notebook Gustave flipped to an earlier page with a sketch of the Nascimbene house. A circle was drawn around the portrait and there were indicators of exits and entrances. Windows included.

‘What we need to do is get in, go along this hall here, skip through this room, then into the ball room where the portrait is-‘

‘Assuming he hasn’t moved it.’

‘Quite right. But I chatted up the cook today and she informed me that at least as of this afternoon it remained in the ballroom.’

There was a movement of Dmitri’s face, as if to make a comment, but it went still. Gustave waited a beat then continued. His pen traced over the route they were to take, the noted tricky bits, the areas where they could possibly come into contact with a servant. And the marquis himself? Well, Gustave had it on good authority that he was to spend the evening out at the house of his mistress. Ideal.

‘I foresee no problems,’ the former concierge finished. ‘But we should still be prepared.’

‘And why do you need me for this bout of insanity?’

‘To watch my back, for help in case trouble shows up, as an alibi when the authorities inevitably become involved, and because I enjoy your company, of course.’

Their soup was taken away and pasta brought out. Dmitri poked a muscle with his fork. It scooted over to a clam and he glowered through the steam and the wine at the man sitting opposite him.

‘You look much better when you’re not in a foul mood, darling.’

‘I’m not here to please you.’ 

‘No, you’re not. I’m corrected. So, we lay low until midnight then strike.’

The wine was very good, Dmitri had to admit. Better than what they had the previous night at the marquise’s. Even if it wasn’t quite to his taste, it was still very good. And now Gustave was rambling on about some story about a guest and a goat and a misplaced boot. The count decided that it would be easier to flow with the evening than fight it for it seemed that truly, the gods evidently hated him more than any other man on the green earth. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have submitted him to a night with Gustave H, former concierge, inheritance thief, and all around fucking queer. Even if the wine was rather good and all right, yes, that story was pretty amusing.

 

 

They took a slow walk back towards Gustave’s as the man had explained that he had tools and other things necessary for the night. He was staying near San Marco’s square so they ended up on a round about circuitous way home. For the sake of contemplation and ruminating before committing theft.

‘How did you find me?’ Dmitri asked as they stopped to watch gondoliers pass.

‘You do have a distinctive name and title.  Not to mention an infamous family history. And even if they didn’t recognize your name I only had to describe you. Tall, black hair, looks a little like a scarecrow in a sable coat that’s half a size too big. Or a predatory flamingo.’

Dmitri scowled and stalked ahead for a moment before slowing down again and letting Gustave catch up. The concierge said he was sorry, if he offended him at all – To which the count replied that he wasn’t offended. No, he wasn’t bothered because nothing Gustave could ever say would bother him. Where are they going, anyway?

‘We’re here to soak in the poetics of Venice. There are poems about it you know. Byron wrote a good one, I’ll recite it for you.’

‘Please don’t feel that you have to.’

‘Oh no, it will set the mood. Besides, I feel you might have a kinship to the dark and brooding poet.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’

‘I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, / A palace and a prison on each hand: / I saw from out the wave her structures rise / As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand: / A thousand years their cloudy wings expand / Around me, and a dying Glory smiles – ‘

‘Please stop.’

‘Don’t you like poetry, darling?’

They were near the Bridge of Sighs. If they listened carefully, Gustave felt that they could hear the long lost whispers of the condemned. With their last look out to freedom and the open sea. It must have been like a last cigarette, only more poetic.

He rallied himself. Dmitri was glowering and fishing in his pockets for a matchbox. It was soon retrieved and he lit his smoke. There were tendrils drifting up from the cigarette – little ghosts of grey and blue dissipating into night air.

‘There’s another one,’ Gustave continued. He found he couldn’t really stop, now that he had started. ‘There is a glorious City in the sea. / The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, / Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed, / Clings to the marble of her palaces. / No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, / Lead to her gates. The path lies o’er the Sea.’ He stopped and watched the count smoke furiously ahead of him. ‘It goes on, but you don’t seem as into the poems as your dear mother was.’

‘That’s because I am not my mother and I am trying to have a peaceful after dinner smoke and you keep talking. Weren’t we going to your place?’

‘We are. In a manner of speaking. Though you remind me of her. You’re quite like her, you know.’

‘I am nothing like her. You fucking don’t know me well enough to say that.’

Gustave hummed that perhaps this was true. They walked on. Through archways and little squares and over bridges. Sometimes they would stop and watch the water, Dmitri flicking ash into dark wetness. Windows were dark and arched in the Byzantine style. Out of some poured flowers and vines, dark leaves against brick or brightly painted stucco. Laundry hung precariously over a watery death.

 

The former concierge understood why the city was considered a floating jewel, why it had been a tourist destination for centuries. They found a corner, near his hotel, with a little alter up on a brick wall. It was to a local saint of some sort, a woman wearing white, and in front of her was a bouquet of dried lavender and little yellow flowers and straw. It was tied together with a green thread.

‘I’m here,’ he pointed to a small but stately hotel. There was ivy covering its gate and little candles next to yet another picture of the Virgin. ‘We can discuss the details of the plan inside. Walls have ears and all that.’

They went up to Gustave’s room and locked the door. The curtains were checked along with closet and under the bed. Dmitri watched with a scowl. His arms were crossed and foot tapping an uncontrolled rhythm.

‘What are you checking for?’

‘Someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Diefenbach.’ Guztave then hauled a case onto the bed, unlocked and opened it. Inside was a lock pick, glass cutter, and other various tools for burglary. Dmitri, under his breath, I’m assuming you’ve done this before. ‘Never, darling. It’s quite expense incurring, to get into the cat-burglary business.’ He handed over a torch and a small mask.

‘I’m not wearing this shit.’

‘It’s part of the disguise.’

‘Covering your eyes doesn’t make you disguised. It makes you still Gustave H but with your eyes masked.’

‘You’re probably right. What’s your suggestion then?’

‘Don’t get caught.’

They opened the map again and inspected the route. It was clear enough, although hinging on the absence of servants. And what would they di if there were servants? Run, Gustave said, run very fast.

 

 

 

Outside Nascimbene’s house Dmitri asked, who was Diefenbach? Oh, the man who stole the painting the first time. And what does he look like? Goatee, moustache, blondish hair, tall, and with a creepy smile. Dmitri mulled over this.

‘Ready?’ Gustave asked.

‘Why am I doing this again?’

‘Because we’re friends.’

‘We are anything but friends.’

‘Come now, don’t be harsh. We’ll talk about your denial issues later. Hand me the gloves please. Excellent, now we must be silent as the grave.’

They entered the house through a garden facing window and managed to not fall face forward in through it. It didn’t take long to weave their way through the house towards the ball room.

It was eerie with only moonlight to show their way. Torches were present for emergencies only. Gustave paused by the doors and held a finger up to his lips, Dmitri rolled his eyes. They moved forward, keeping to the edges, the walls, the shadows. Once they were convinced that the coast was clear they moved forward, darting towards the heavy curtains. Pulling them back Gustave sucked in a breath. Dmitri breathed out. There was _Boy with Apple_ looking back, benign and unchanged. Carefully, the older man reached forward and plucked the painting off the wall and slid it into the cloth bag they had secured.

It was with one foot out the window and Dmitri standing behind him when he heard the voice.

‘I thought you two would show up at some point.’

Behind them, a hulking shadow in the doorframe, was Diefenbach.

‘You thieving son of a bitch.’ Gustave greeted.

‘I second that fucker’s assessment.’ Dmitri concurred.

Diefenbach just smiled. It was predatory. Dmitri wondered, for a fleeting second, how his life had come to this. Helping a mere plebeian steal a painting from a marquise in the middle of Venice. I have my gun, he thought, but that might not be smart because I think he has a gun and Gustave is holding a priceless painting.

The count looked at the former-concierge. They both looked at the art procurer. Back to each other. Then they ran.

 

‘Down here, down here,’ Dmitri pointed to an alley. ‘Across the bridge go straight first left run faster I can see him.’

The bolt through allies, taking hurried glances over their shoulder and seeing the phantom fnatsical image of Diefenbach giving chase.

‘He’s quite something, Gustave gasped when they stoped for a breather. ‘Magnifient. Straight from a horror novel. Something Shelly would write about.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake let’s go.’

They ran some more. Skirting around the edges of canals, those watery eternal streets, they found themselves outside Dmitri’s residence. He banged on the door. His keys, he had quickly realised, had been dropped somehere in the chase.

The door opened and the sleepy face of Marguerite was peering at them in the dim.

‘Excellent, Marguerite this is that fucking faggot Gustave who stole our inheritance, Gustave this is my sister Marguerite. Look, sister, we’re in a bit of a bind.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘There’s a man chasing us. Carolina would better for the job, she prefers the big hulking kinds with more muscle than brain-‘

‘He’s actually quite intelligent.’

‘Shut the fuck up Gustave. He’s behind us and will be here shortly.’

Marguerite looked at the parcel under Gusatve’s arm and laughed. Well, it was more of a snort, but it did the trick. Oh, she said, you stole _Boy with Apple._ I told Merlo you might do something like that. I hadn’t expected the team effort, though. You’re branching out, brother mine. That’s healthy for you.

Dmitri pointed at her, you need to shut up too. Everyone just needs to shut up and we need to go.

‘Out the back door, down the alley, take a left.’ His sister instructed. She leaned against the front door as a fist pounded on it. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll take care of your pursuer. At least for a little while.’

Gustave, ‘oh you kind, sweet woman.’

‘Stop flirting with my sister.’

‘I wasn’t flirting. Can a man not say sweet things to a woman?’

‘Just go, Gustave.’

He was yelling down the hall, ‘you angel of light! You savoir of all things beautiful! You beacon of charm!’

Also yelled from down the hall, ‘Oh my fucking god Gustave, you fucking ass, if you don’t shut the fuck up I fucking swear I’m going to fucking cut you.’

‘I love you too, Dmitri.’

‘Fucking faggot.’

The back door slammed.

 

Marguerite turned and asked, Who is it?

‘Ansgar von Diefenbach. It’s an emergency.’

She creaked the door open and peered through, looking up at him through lashes.

‘What kind of emergency, signor? It’s very late. Should a doctor be called?’

Shifting from foot to foot he peered over her head into the darkened hall.

‘May I come in?’

‘It’s late, signor. That wouldn’t be proper.’ Her eye lashes were fluttering now. She adjusted herself behind the door. He didn’t look at her. He was looking above her, beside her, around her.

‘It’s an emergency.’

‘So you keep saying. I haven’t heard what it is, yet.’

‘I believe some fugitives from the law have escaped into your home and may be hiding there.’

She gasped, shocked, Oh no, that is terrible. Then of course, you must come in, signor. She opened the door to let him pass. His cologne was almost as overwhelming as M. Gustave’s but more earthy and less floral. He jerked his head left to right, scanning and scanning. He began going down the main hall.

‘I doubt they went there, signor. I would have heard them.’

‘They’re criminals, they might have been going quietly.'

‘If they were on the run from such a formidable lawman as yourself, signor, I doubt they would have taken the effort to be silent.’ She paused, leaned into the archway between front hall and main hall. Her dressing gown was thin and she adjusted it a little more. ‘You’ve given them quite the chase, wouldn’t you care for some refreshments?’

Diefenbach found himself being guided to a small room, clearly the woman’s private meeting place. There were portraits on the wall – likenesses of various royalty. There was Queen Anne Boleyn next to her cousin Katherine Howard. There was ill-fated Marie Antoinette. Maria Theresa was present. Her compatriot on the wall was Joanna II of Naples. There was Katherine of Aragon and her mother Isabella. Letizia Borgia was in shadows, watching with knowing eyes. Her brother was not next to her.

A glass of am amber liquid was poured, he guessed scotch, well aged. The woman went to the private door and closed it, she leaned into it, and, as he took a sip, she smiled.

 

 

 

‘Should we have left your sister with that man?’ Gustave asked as their boat pushed off the dock towards mainland.

‘Oh yes, she’ll be fine. It’s Diefenbach who has to worry.’ The count propped his feet up on the railing and leaned back to look at the stars and the clouds and the thin moon. ‘My family didn’t make our money honestly, if that’s what you’re about to ask. Tricks of the trade are passed down. And if you think I’m a vicious murdering, violent bastard, stay away from my sisters.’

‘They struck me as more timid.’

‘I’ll tell them you said that. They’ll be immensely pleased.’

The boat made its boat noises. It drifted along. Gustave provided a few lines about an albatross and the lack of water on a derelict boat lost at sea.  A flask was put into Dmitri’s line of vision. It was sloshed. Brandy, the older man said. Best of the Grand Budapest. Compliments of its former concierge.

‘You’re a fucking queer.’

‘You keep saying that.’

‘Cigarette?’

‘Oh, no thank you, darling. I don’t indulge.’

‘Suit yourself.’

A quiet moment passed. The flickering lights of the jewel of the lagoon slowly faded. Dmitri assumed he’d have to have his sister forward his bags to him, wherever he ended up next. Paris sounded good. Maybe London. If the war went in Germany’s favour he’d want to be in London. Especially after that issue with the funds disappearing from Zubrowka’s fascist party. He clucked his tongue and sighed. Though, they did tide him over well enough. He did a few mental calculations and nodded. Yes, he’d be fine in London for a little while. Maybe put in a few investments.

‘How did you end up in Venice?’ Dmitri asked to the man sitting behind him.

Gustave adjusted his posture, pulled a coat around his shoulders.

‘I was going after my painting.’

‘ _My_ painting. But how did you know it would be here? In Nascimbene’s house?’

‘Oh, I asked around. Phoned a few friends, found out that Nascimbene was the current biggest collector of middle and late Renaissance works. Heard from a few concierge friends that Diefenbach had been seen in their hotels. The portrait of Cesare Borgia disappeared from one. A Michelangelo piece from another.

‘Once I realised who the most likely culprit was, it wasn’t too difficult to put two and two together.’

Dmitri took the flask back. Gustave watched long fingers flick ash into the sea. The man was certainly elegant, if in an old, stuffy, aristocratic way. And the moustache ridiculous but it suited the count well enough.

‘You missed your calling.’ The flask was handed back. ‘You should have gone into crime.’

‘I think not.’ Gustave was testy. ‘Do you play piano?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Oh nothing.’

The silence lingered until landfall.


	9. A Book of Hours

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

 

Italy along the Adriatic coast was picturesque. Without much on them the two men found themselves walking north with the eventual intention of turning west and heading back into the alps.

Stopping along a small cliff Gustave set the picture down, stretched, breathed in, and declared, ‘have you ever seen anything so beautiful?’

Dmitri stared dismally at the water.

‘You know, if you didn’t smoke you wouldn’t be suffering from withdrawals right now.’

Dmitri continued as he had been before.

‘As much as I think your pouting is romantically aesthetic in the grand tradition of Byron and Shelly, it does get repetitive.’

Dmitri shifted is stare from the water to Gustave.

‘I’m not keen on nature.’ He finally muttered.

‘Oh! Why ever not, darling? It’s the test of man and his mettle. Us against the wild! Braving the fierceness of the unknown – oh fuck it you’re right. I could really do with Champaign and a good salmon filet.’ Gustave shrugged. ‘I gave it try, though. I don’t understand how those romantic poets could do it.’

‘Half of it was just aesthetics, I’m sure.’

This was ruminated over. It went with the waves and the breeze and the jagged rocks below them.

Gustave, ‘What we ultimately need to do is prove that the contract of sale is false.’ The papers were pulled out, unfolded,  re-inspected. ‘I just can’t fathom how this happened.’

‘Life is full of shit, sometimes. Usually you’re the perpetrator of it.’

‘Dmitri, if we’re going to get away with this successfully we really ought to be getting along.’

The count shrugged. Fine, fine. I’ll not insult every ten minutes. Half an hour fine? Because I really can’t help it. Gustave replied that every half hour was acceptable. Oh, and darling, at the very least try and be more creative.

 

 

That night was spent in a field. 

Dmitri was on his back staring up at stars. The painting was between them. He thought about taking it and running. Running to where? He couldn’t go back to Venice, being a red-handed thief. Zubrowka had its own difficulties. There was always his plan with London. But even then, it wasn’t a guarantee. And what if someone stole it again from him? The possibilities were endless.

He rolled over to his side and found that Gustave had been his twin in positions. The former concierge pointed up, I think that one is the big dipper. Oh look, a shooting star.

Silence.

‘You know your mother –‘

‘No.’

‘She did care about you all. Despite her eccentric will.’

‘Is that what you’d call it?’

Silence.

‘Who are your family?’

Silence.

‘Gustave?’

Silence.

‘Fuck, fine then. We can talk me all you want but not you.’

‘I’m sorry, I was just thinking.’ Gustave frowned up at the stars. He thought about the Grand Budapest, his home. With the gold and the marble and the red and the white and the purple. Oh, and the old women who loved him so much. His entourage, as Zero had once quaintly put it. ‘My family is the hotel.’

Dmitri replied that this was not, strictly speaking, an answer. But the question was dropped, regardless. Neither slept much. The count complained of the ground and the rocks and how his back hurt. Gustave waxed poetic about the painting and the stars and his beloved hotel.

It was an entire night spent talking about nothing. And, of course, Dmitri cursed worse than a sailor through over half of it.

‘Tell me what your favourite painting is.’ Gustave inquired as the sky began the inevitable change towards light.

‘I don’t have one.’

‘I thought for sure it would be this one.’ A motion to the package lying between their coats to keep the damp off.

‘I like it, sure.’

‘But it’s not your favourite.’

‘No.’

The grass was cool with early morning dew. Their coats glistened. The painting was safe in its bag between them. Gustave felt more questions gathering on his tongue but he held still. He felt, somehow, that Dmitri was a man who valued his silence – despite all his voracious snarling and prodigious cursing.

Gustave was fairly sure he had never heard the word “fuck” used as many times in a single sentence as he had with Dmitri. How did a woman like Celine manage to raise a man like Dmitri? The world would forever baffle him. But this mystery was mostly benign so he tinkered with it until daybreak.

 

 

 

It took most of the morning but they eventually found a small village to eat in. Dmitri ordered three coffees for himself, bought a pack of cigarettes (American), and set himself up out on the sidewalk. Gustave asked for a glass of water, an espresso, and maybe some bread. Toast would be ideal. With butter. Perfect.

‘So,’ the younger man blew out smoke. ‘Where to next?’

‘Well, the woman behind the counter was kind enough to give me directions to the nearest town with a train. I figure we should try and make it back to Zubrowka and then have the bill of sale proven to be a forgery. Once that is complete _Boy with Apple_ will return to its rightful place.’

‘In my possession?’

‘Hardly.’

The count shrugged.

Gustave, ‘What happened to Diefenbach?’

‘Couldn’t say.’

‘Your sister didn’t have him brutally murdered by some psychopath did she?’

‘No.’ The cigarette was snuffed out. ‘Well, I don’t think so. She might have. It’s hard to say.’

‘And they always seemed like such flighty little black birds to me.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re not the first to make that mistake.’

‘They twitter about so. Like a gaggle of perpetually confused geese. Well, there’s nothing for it, I suppose. We are catching a milk cart from here to a north town then the train to Milan and from there to Zubrowka.’

Dmitri said that the plan sounded fine. Just give him an hour or so to become human again and finish his coffee.

‘Why are you so attached to _Boy with Apple_?’

‘Gustave.’

‘What?’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘You always say that, darling, but I really don’t think you mind.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’

The day continued.

 

 

 

Tension. Tension is at home in silence and there was silence between them despite all of Gustave’s talking. It was there in the milk cart while the former concierge spoke of some duchess from the northern expanses of Europe. It was there as they wandered through a new town in search of the train station. It was there between the purchasing of tickets and the waiting and the watching of the train station clock.

Dmitri wondered if they should be looking over their shoulders more. Gustave had an air of amused holiday about him. With his jaunty coat and waist coat and his perpetual optimism which was only occasional clouded. He was twee, he was vulgar, but always enthusiastic and real. He was truly, so very real.

They were in transit now. On that rocking steadiness between stations. The few transfer points noted to them were quaint sounding names and made Gustave think of picture books with old tales of Stregga Nonna and Medicis and sell sword _condotieori._ He owned, to himself, that he was a bit of a romantic, at times. Perhaps that was something a bit much. Perhaps not. He wasn’t sure.

Dmitri was on the top bunk and there was a hand dangling off so it was just there, in the side-line, of Gustave’s vision.

Tension.

Gustave had a fleeting thought – I am not a picky man by any stretch of the imagination. Not in terms of partners, at least.

The hand was still in his line of vision.

Tension. And, of course, silence.

Dmitri was staring at his reflection in the window opposite his bunk. He could see part of Gustave’s reflection. That fucking concierge who had the nerve to steal his fortune from him. Not that he was without means, of course. But it was still the principle of the matter that bothered him. Not to mention that the mere commoner had now roped him in on some wild goose-chase over the blasted painting which had started the entire fiasco in the first place.

The bit in the glass he could see was Gustave’s reflection. The man was still awake and staring up at the bunk. Dmitri had a brief thought – something from Ancient Greece, which he had read as a young man – and pushed it away.

Tension.

That fucking fag, he thought. What is he up to?

The profile in reflection was still present.

Tension. And, of course, silence.

 

 

 

 

Forged documents. That was the root of the entire problem. Forged documents and a deposit of money.

‘I don’t see my way out of it.’ Gustave moaned. ‘I don’t see how this can be reversed.’

‘Trust me, it can.’

‘How would you know?’

Dmitri gave him a look. A look that spoke of having been on both sides of the scenario before. Aristocrats, Gustave mused, are really just thieves and murderers who ended up winning the day. Like how everyone is a traitor until the revolution is won.

‘Your lack of fucking faith in this situation is disheartening. I fucking broke into a marquise’s house for this shit of a painting so I demand that you continue to be your usual obnoxiously optimistic self.’

‘Oh, Dmitri, that is very kind of you.’

‘Don’t get fucking sentimental on me.’

‘No, really, that was very nice of you.’

‘Fucking queer.’

‘Don’t shy away from compliments, Dmitri. It’s just as difficult to learn how to receive them as how to give them, but equally rewarding.’

‘Oh fucking hell, not another one of your lectures.’

‘No, listen to me Dmitri. When you suffer from self doubt and denial, learning the accept compliments is the first step to learning to accept your self.’

‘I can’t believe I’m listening to this.’

‘You’re listening because we’re on a train and you have nowhere else to go. But it’s good for you, really. Now, learning to love yourself is probably one of the hardest lessons of life. But it can be accomplished.’

But Dmitri had moved on and was back inspecting the documents. He turned them over, held them up to the light, finished his drink and motioned for a second to be poured.

Dmitri hummed. It was off tune and incomprehensible. Gustave decided he liked it.

‘You were telling me about medieval art the other day.’

‘I’m trying to solve your fucking forgery problem.’

‘The blue in the virgin Mary right? Because it cost so much for the paint. I never knew that. Have you ever seen an exhibit of those little prayer books?’

‘Book of Hours?’

A fervent nod, Gustave pointed, yes, yes, that’s the one. A book of hours. I saw it once in Lutz, at the museum, maybe ten years ago. There was an exhibit there and they were all French, if he recalled correctly. And there was one, the centre piece, the point of the entire show, the Main Act, the climax, so to speak. Was a particularly elegant one, larger than the others, jewels and the like on the cover, but the pages they displaced were all covered in silver and gold leaf and the deepest, richest blue he had ever seen.

‘Of course, at the time I had assumed that the gold leaf and precious gems was what marked it as particularly special. I had no idea that the blue was also part of it.’

Dmitri looked up from the bills of sale. Does this story have a point?

No, no it didn’t. But need it?

No answer.

Tension. That radiating tension.

Gustave said, to his drink and to the window which was reflecting Dmitri who was still bowed over the papers, ‘I remember down at the bottom there was a miniature of a manor field and some farmers working. I think it was of an apple orchard.’

 

 

 

 

Dining car. Eight in the evening. A bottle of wine and whatever the chef decided to serve. They were dressed only moderately well and were making due with a non-existent wardrobe.

They were on their desert when Dmitri’s expressin changed.

‘What did that fucker look like?’

‘Which fucker, darling?’

‘The one chasing us back in Venice.’

Gustave described him. Asked why? Dmitri shook his head and said he had thought maybe he had seen him but wasn’t sure. Don’t go making me paranoid, Gustave chided. They finished the bottle of wine and Dmitri was stealing bits of Gustave’s desert since the older man seemed disinclined to finish it.

 

 

 

‘I thought your sister dealt with him.’ Gustave brought the conversation back around as Dmitri rolled cigarettes in the bar car.

‘That could mean _anything._ ’

‘So he could be alive.’

‘Certainly. He could also be fucking dead. It’s hard to tell with Margeruite.’

‘Is she getting married?’

A shrug.

‘That Count Merlo seemed a nice enough fellow. I think I might approve of the union.’

‘To her great relief, I’m sure.’

‘Tell me about yourself Dmitri.’ Gustave was leaning on the table with both elbows. ‘I feel that I don’t know you.’

Dmitri looked at him. Steadily. For a firm two minutes. Then, slowly, ‘that’s because you don’t.’

‘Do you like art?'

‘Not particularly.’

‘Music?’

‘I’m ambivalent.’

‘Books?’

‘Naturally.’

‘What kind?’

‘Any. I’m not picky.’

‘Poetry?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ Gustave deflated.

Dmitri sighed. ‘All right, I don’t mind poetry. I like the occasional poem. Just don’t fucking recite it while we’re running away from a gun toting art thief.’

‘But darling –‘

‘You’re such a fucking fag. Care for one?’ The cigarette box was held open. Gustave declined. He reminded Dmitri that he didn’t smoke. Dmitri said that a man can change.

The count lit a match, looked over Gustave’s right shoulder, and frowned.

‘Could have sworn I saw that dirty art thief again. Fucker.’

‘Maybe we should go back to the cabin.’

‘Maybe.’

They made their way back, through women in formal wear and men in smoking jackets. In their room everything was as it ought to be – _Boy with Apple_ in place, nothing tampered with except one thing. Dmitri looked at his bag. He walked around it. Peered at it from different angles.

‘It’s been touched.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t the maid?’

‘She came earlier. She wouldn’t have returned.’

‘What’s missing?’

He went through the pockets. Clothing was fine, personal papers were fine, everything in order. He shook his head – nothing’s been taken. But it’s definitely been moved that fucking asshole came in and touched my fucking bag that fucking faggot.

‘You can’t call him that.'

‘Why not?’

‘Because that’s my insult.’

‘Fine, he’s a fucking asshole. A fucking shit faced asshole.’

‘That’s better.’

There was a knock, then. At the door. Firm. Three separate raps. Knock, knock, knock. The two men froze, exchanged a look, then stared at the door

Gustave, ‘who is it?’ 

‘There’s been a mix-up. Could I please speak with you both?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Please, gentlemen, I need to speak with you.’

The door muffled the voice was Gustave was sure as the was long, that the man on the other side was Diefenbach. And like hell was he going to open the door to him.


	10. Interlude with a Minor Violin Solo

 .  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

“V”

 

There died a myriad,

And of the best, among them,

For an old bitch gone in the teeth,

For a botched civilization,

 

Charm, smiling at the good mouth,

Quick eyes gone under earth’s lid,

 

For two gross of broken statues,

For a few thousand battered books.

 

_Excerpt from “_ _Hugh Selwyn Mauberley” by Ezra Pound_

 

 

 

_.  .  ._

 

_.  .  ._

 


	11. Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilles

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

 

Eventually Diefenbach left.

 

The train was crowded. Too crowded. Neither would sleep, it was decided. Or, maybe better yet, they would take shifts. Gustave first, then Dmitri. They would alternate.

Coffee was ordered to the cabin and they set themselves up for a long night.

‘How long until we reach Milan?’

‘Another day and a half.’ Gustave sighed. He closed his eyes and thought of his bed back in the Grand Budapest. He could taste his morning coffee and smell the perfume of various women who lingered around. Under his fingers wasn’t course train linen but the soft velvet chairs, his fine cotton shirts – all the new and beautiful things he owned. The bed creaked as Dmitri climbed down from the top bunk. Kneeling down he groped under Gustave’s until he rocked back onto his heels then to a seated position, on his lap was _Boy with Apple._

‘It’s really an extraordinary thing, when you think about. What men will do for a mere painting. Such a little thing. A bit of oil on canvas.’ His fingers traced the frame. He leaned in and read the date and the artist’s name. The boy stared at him in silent sobriety. ‘The apple,’ he turned the portrait around. ‘What do you notice about it?’

‘It’s green. The colour of envy, of fertility, youth and inexperience. It can also mean death and illness. In clothing I believe it represents the merchant class. But the boy is clearly nobility.’

‘What else do you notice?’

Gustave looked at it, made a face. He didn’t know.

‘It’s rotten,’ the pianist finger pointed to the right side of the apple, towards the top and the boy’s finger.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Lots of things.’

They were looking at each other without looking at each other. Both were intent on the painting. Looking at each other through the painting.

Dmitri was intoning the symbolism of the apple. It was sin, of course. The forbidden fruit of Eve. It was knowledge and the inevitable fall. In Greek mythology it was life for it grows from the tree of life. It was also associated with beauty – Helen of Troy, Atalanta who outran all her potential suitors save one. Sometimes with death. In certain countries coffins were once built out of the wood of apple trees. He went one. Gustave listened and found himself smiling at the serious face meditating over the painting with messy black hair and a ridiculous moustache.

‘I like you.’ He said when Dmitri had finished. ‘I used to not, but I think I do now.’

‘What the fuck did I do to deserve that?’

‘Keep telling me about the picture. I only knew that it was the best Hoytl had produced and that he wasn’t a terribly prolific artist.’

‘I don’t trust you, Gustave H.’

An innocent face. Why ever not?

‘Because you say things then change the subject.’

‘You seemed uncomfortable. And for a man who says he doesn’t care for art you do know a lot about it.’

‘A classical education was forced down my throat beginning at the pitiable age of seven.’

Gustave rolled over onto his side and looked down at the portrait in the younger man’s lap. The boy had eyes that followed you through the room – Mona Lisa eyes. And non-existent smile - so no, no Mona Lisa there.

Dmitri finally looked up from the painting and found himself staring at Gustave’s interested face. He pointed, ‘ _You_ would have liked it.’

‘I’m sure you enjoyed some of it.’

‘Probably.’ The painting was tucked back into it sack and hidden under coats under the bed. ‘But I can’t remember.’

 

 

 

With the way the war looked to be going Gustave was still having serious thoughts about liquidating the portrait. They paused in a nameless field and more nameless soldiers boarded and asked for papers. Dmitri prodded Gustave, hissed into his ear, ‘this seems like a prime time to get off.’

‘What? In the middle of an olive orchard?’

‘If we get off in Milan Diefenbach will be right behind us. I know a way, get the painting, follow me.’

They duck through cars and around tables and under the arms of soldiers and into the third class. Past the third class and into a supply car. A side door was wrenched open and they jumped off, running forward into the trees, picking a larger one to hide behind until the train moved on.

‘So how do we go on from here?’

‘There’s a town a little ways back. We’ll back track then get on a second train. My guess is that Diefenbach will assume we’ve slipped off and will head straight to Zubrowka. It’ll give us more time to ponder the situation.' 

‘I really should have sold the painting when I had a chance.’

The train resumed its usual pace forward leaving behind two dusty men and a secret painting. Standing at a window, watching the scenery pass, was Diefenbach. Once the soldiers were out of sight he marched to the cabin and forced the door open only to find it empty with no evidence of ever having been inhabited.

Guests would later swear they heard a large crash. Others would say, no it’s a scream of muffled rage. Still others would say that it was a mechanical sound – gears caught and not working, something in the system somewhere, breaking.

Out in a field in a small Italian town two men walked along dusty tracks, by stately gnarled olive trees, to a train station. Between them was a painting. One man was lighting a cigarette, the other was waxing poetic about the beauty of mad escape plans. They were a picture worthy of being painted.

 

 

Travel was slow. This was a fact of life for them as they inched across the Italian peninsula then north into Switzerland then back up steep mountains and through narrow passes to home, Zubrowka.

They were on the subject of traveling as they crossed the Swiss boarder. Dmitri was listing countries, just the European ones, France – both before and after the war, Germany – before and after, England – only after, Spain – only before, Portugal – only before, Greece – after, Romania – after, Turkey – when it was Ottoman and after it was Ottoman…his list continued.

They were seated in the drinks car and Dmitri was into the scotch and Gustave was into the port. Dinner had been exquisite, as expected, and they were wiling away long night hours. Somewhere, they had procured a deck of cards, but that hadn’t ended well after Dmitri had declared that Gustave, the fucking prick, was cheating.

‘Darling, I’ll stop you there. Where _haven’t_ you been?’

‘Nordic countries. I hear Finland is civilized. I want to see Iceland as well. Denmark, too. I’ve not seen the north of France, which is apparently considered a separate country from the south with Paris the estimable divider. Russia. But I have no desire to see Russia. Fucking commies.’

A waiter walked by, refreshed their drinks.

‘You know what surprises me.’ Gustave intoned over his glass. ‘That we haven’t been hunted yet. By the proper authorities. Diefenbach hardly counts. One would think Nascimbene would have contacted the police or something. Put our names out, provided pictures and the like.’

Dmitri shrugged. Count us lucky, I guess. I’m not going to question it. He pointed to Gustave. And you better not, either.

 

 

 

That night, to the rocking of the train, Gustave, ‘I meant what I said the other day.’

‘Oh _fuck_.’

‘When we were talking about _Boy with Apple._ ’

‘Here we go.’

‘I like you. You’re sort of like a prickly porky-pine who smokes too much. You’re violent and angry and vulgar but you’re genuine. That counts for something.’ He paused. Only a few weeks ago he had been walking down the staircase at the Grand Budapest and wondering what the painting meant to him then. Oh yes, Madam D, meeting Zero, gaining a fortune and a half. But it lingered in his mind as something else. ‘There are so few people I know who are genuine. Zero, of course. Agatha, that divine girl. But very few others. Dmitri? Are you awake?’

‘With your fucking talking –‘

‘Good, because I do mean what I say.’

The train trundled on in darkness. There were occasional shadows passing over their ceiling from trees and buildings. Outside noises would occasionally creep in. Dmitri watched the evening play out above him. He was distinctly Not Thinking. He decided that it would be back to its normalcy in the morning – whatever it was.

‘Dmitri?’

‘What?’

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re lucky.’

‘Am I?’

‘To be able to think about nothing whenever you want. You know, there are a great many people who strive to be able to do that. Meditation, prayer, rituals –‘

‘Gustave?'

‘What, darling?’

‘For fuck’s sake, please shut up.’

‘Oh you said please! I knew you liked me.’

Dmitri rolled over and stuck his head off the edge of the bunk so he was looking down at the former concierge.

‘I mean it, prick. I’ll cut you, otherwise.’

‘Of course, darling. I’ll let you sleep.’

They parted ways for the evening. Dmitri was on his side with eyes closed but hardly asleep. The breathing of the man below his softened, curtailed itself, and then faded to the easy cadence of sleep.

 

 

Something was happening. Something, but what, exactly, Dmitri couldn’t say. He had spent the day puzzling it over as they moved steadily north and into cooler climates. He thought that maybe being back in Zubrowka would fix whatever was wrong. Would put it all back to when he just snarled at Gustave and called him fucking faggot whenever he got the chance and the former concierge would reply with his usual snippy comments and that would be that.

In Zubrowka they wouldn’t talk about art. In Zubrowka they wouldn’t have drinks and wander through unknown streets. In Zubrowka he wouldn’t hold his tongue on insults – almost to the point where he’d forgot that he was even trying to hold it – almost to the point where he wasn’t really thinking them anymore. In Zubrowka all would be well.

However, they weren’t in Zubrowka yet. Instead, they were on a train crossing into Switzerland and hoping that the crazy German art thief had lost them along the way and that the crazy Italian Marquis wasn’t going to press (illogical and erroneous) charges. All the while Dmitri was deciding to not think about Gustave anymore because it wasn’t doing him any good – and hadn’t he made those thoughts go away a long time ago? Because it was getting fucking annoying and fucking fuck he needed to be asleep right now and not thinking these things which don’t have names and fucking fuck fuckity fuck fuck. 

 

 

Morning.

Gustave brought in coffee and a basket of pastries. He took out a croissant and lounged in his bed with the morning paper.

‘The Swiss can’t write for shit.’ He declared.

There was a muffled reply.

‘Good morning.’ He countered.

A second muffled reply and a hand descended into view.

‘Is this you asking for coffee?’

‘I hate you.’

‘We’ve been over this. Do you take cream?’

‘No.’

‘Sugar?’

‘No.’

‘How aesthetic. Here.’

Dmitri righted himself, took the coffee, and curled into a corner of the bed. A copy of the newspaper was handed up along with a pencil.

‘You like the crosswords.’ Gustave explained.

‘How the fuck did you know that?’

‘I used to be a concierge, Dmitri.’ A pause. A cocky smile. Dmitri glared and dove behind the Swiss paper. Gustave returned to his spot on his bed and continued his perusal.

‘We need to get off in Zurich.’ Dmitri leaned over and stuck his head down to Gustave’s eye line.

‘Why?’

‘Because, I know a man there who can help us with the forgery problem.’

‘Did you get seven across?’

‘You’re not paying attention. Zurich. We’re getting off. Or at least I am.’

‘I think it’s xylophone but I could be wrong.  You’re not keen on getting to Zubrowka are you?’

‘I’m keen.’ The head disappeared back to the top bunk. His voice carried over, slightly muffled, from behind the paper. ‘At the same time, I’d rather not be arrested for embezzlement by the Party.’

‘We’ll purchase you a large hat.’

‘God, glad to know you’ve got this covered.’

‘You might have to shave.’

‘Never!’

The bed was thumped. There was indistinct muttering and the rustling of paper. They continued their morning routine.

 

 

At lunch they played cards before Dmitri became fed up with Gustave’s winning streak and went off for a furious smoke and a read.

Gustave spent the remainder of the afternoon chatting to various women in the dining car – all old, wealthy, and blonde.

 

 

Dinner came around. Dmitri joined Gustave in the dining car and snarled at the old birds around the former concierge until they went fluttering off. Gustave looked at Dmitri over the menu. It was a thoughtful look and there was a softness about the older man’s eyes before he was diverted by the arrival of wine.

The count appeared particularly exhausted and spent the first part of dinner drinking and looking out the window.

‘You’re distracted.’ Gustave stated.

‘I’m tired.’ A sigh. ‘You probably should keep a low profile.’

‘What do you mean, dear?’

Dmitri provided him with a pointed look then a glance over at one of the old women Gustave had passed the afternoon with. She smiled at them both. Gave a little wave to Gustave. The older man scoffed, he was just making friends. Besides, Diefenbach wasn’t on the train and had probably lost their trail. Most likely he was sitting pretty up in Lutz waiting for their inevitable arrival. So what was the harm in making friends? You never know when you’ll need a friend.

Dmitri shifted, stabbed a defenceless piece of lettuce, grumbled that it would just be wise for Gustave to be less obviously Gustave.

Gustave replied then Dmitri ought to stop stalking about the train like an angry scarecrow at a funeral and smoking like a chimney and really, being less obviously Dmitri.

They finished the rest of the meal in silence.

 

 

The evening was passed in the cabin. Dmitri was sequestered in his bunk with a book. Gustave was below scribbling into a little pocket notebook.

The notebook was snapped shut. ‘Do you think Nascimbene didn’t contact the authorities because of the forged papers?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the only reason so send a hit-man-art-thief after us would be because this entire affair has the ring of illegality on all sides, his included. Essentially, he’s not going to the proper authorities unless there is no chance that his own villainy will out. Which means –‘

‘That someone connected, aside from Diefenbach, does not have assured loyalty to Nascimbene.’

‘Precisely.’

Gustave scooted to the edge of the bed, slid off, and climbed up to Dmitri’s level. The count kicked him in the thigh half-heartedly.

‘There is someone alive who has the key to the whole mystery. Your friend in Zurich might know who the forger was. That’s the key, I think, this forgery.’ The older man smiled fondly at Dmitri. ‘You’re frightfully clever to have a connection like this in Zurich.’

‘Family friend.’

‘Still, frightfully clever.’

Dmitri frowned. He watched Gustave for a moment before asking if there was anything else the man wanted to discuss. Gustave shook his head, no no, that was it. So why was he still on Dmitri’s bed? Oh, well, the perspective from up here is very different from the bottom bunk. And oh look, you get a view out of the window that’s better than mine.

‘I see why you called the top bunk.’

‘It’s almost midnight.'

‘Yes.’

‘I think I might be going to sleep now that we have agreed to disembark at Zurich.’

‘Oh yes, of course.’

He lingered. Opened his mouth then closed it again. They were staring-not-staring-sort-of-looking-out-the-window. Dmitri coughed and closed his book. He opened it half a minute later. Finally Gustave said his good night and slipped off the top bunk.

When he slept that night he dreamt of a grove and two people running through it, one was in black the other was in grey and purple and around them were apples. They were all green.

 


	12. Call me Ishmael, Call me Hagar, Call me the Unwanted

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

Zurich, Switzerland. It was still October and so cool and damp. Dmitri and Gustave hurried through old streets and alongside the Limmat river. It was early morning and the city was beginning to wake up.

It doesn’t take long to cross into Kreis 1 and towards the old town. Dmitri was leading the way, occasionally stopping to look at streets, pause by stores as if in a memory. When they cross to the other side of the river he explained – I haven’t been here since I was a boy. It’s just odd, you know. Returning to a place like this.

‘Why were you here?’

‘Family vacation. My mother wanted to see someone, one of her paramours probably. I was nine or ten. Not very worldly as you can probably imagine.’ A sudden stop and he was looking at Lindenhof hill. He pointed, ‘there used to be an abbey there, if I remember correctly. The fuckers tore it down. Idiots.’

They continued on their way. Dmitri was providing a brief history of the city from pre-Roman times until the present 1933. It was an Augustinian Abbey called Oetenbach but now what? Now it’s being replaced. With a fucking street. Jesus fucking Christ how things change.

 

 

The old man they were after was a French-Swiss named Albert. His mother had been born somewhere in Provence and his father was from Berne. How they met remained a mystery – to the son and to all who knew the couple.

Albert was sitting at his desk with a _Malleus Maleficarum_ in front of him. Pristine white gloves carefully turned pages and he hummed with satisfaction. Every once in a while he would stop and carefully make note of something in a little notebook.

Be-speckled face looked up with concern when the front door of his shop banged open. Albert saw two men troop in carrying a portrait between them wrapped in cloth and handled with care. He thought of Melville’s Ishmael, a man condemned to wandering the sea instead of the desert, and somehow he imagined the two men present wandering the vast wilderness of human existence within Europe. 

There was a war coming, the old man thought. And these two are old enough to have lived through the first one. Yet, he thought, despite the brutal reality of our lives, there will always be those more concerned with the beauty of life than with the politics of it.

The dark haired one smiled. Sort of. Oh, Albert realised, there’s the resemblance. He’s a Desgofffe-und-Taxis.

‘M Albert?’ He greeted with hand out. ‘Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis.’

‘Of course, sir. I should have known you immediately. You look just like your father.’

Gustave glanced over to the younger man. Dmitri just continued his sort-of smile and shook Albert’ s hand. There was something behind his eyes that was wary. There was something behind his eyes that was slowly crystallizing.

‘This is my…compatriot M Gustave H of the Grand Budapest Hotel.’ 

Albert shook Gustave’s hand, his face was a careful peering look. Gustave saw the old man blink at him for a minute too long then blink at Dmitri. The former concierge could see the gears turning, the cogs clicking into place, the mapping of each man’s name to recent news stories.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ Albert turned back to Dmitri. The _Malleus Maleficarum_ was closed and lovingly put away.

‘We have a bit of a forgery problem.’ As Dmitri sketched a cursory image of their recent travels Gustave placed the documents on the counter. Albert picked them up, turned them over, held them up to the light.

‘Can you procure me a signature of yours,’ he asked Gustave. ‘No, I want an old one, one that you wrote without thought.’

Gustave began burrowing through his bag in the hopes of having something.

Dmitri, ‘So? Can you make anything of it?’

‘My first thoughts are that it was done professionally, in Lutz or the environs thereof, and with an Underwood typewriter.’ He lowered the papers back down and pushed his glasses up with a knuckle. ‘I’ll need to study them in detail to give you anything more informative.’

‘Is it possible to do a rush job with them?’

Albert opened his diary, ran a dusty finger down a dusty page, gave a slow nod. Yes, yes he probably could. Return to the shop tomorrow at noon and he would have information. Young man, do you have your signature located yet? Gustave handed over half a letter with his scrawl at the bottom.

‘I think I wrote it a few weeks ago. For an esteemed lady of my acquaintance.’

Albert repeated his performance of staring between the two of them.

Maybe not Melville’s Ishmael, he concluded.  Maybe more of that Englishman Forster’s characters in them – that one rather scandalous unpublished book that Isherwood had shown him a year or so ago. He thought that it would never do to have things like that published. At the same time he would never advocate for them to be burned or banned. It left and interesting conundrum that he had yet to resolve.

The count, he reasoned, would probably punch him square in the jaw if he said that he reminded the old man of anything akin to _that_ book and the men it was about. He had the look of a man perpetually ready to fight anyone and anything. The former-concierge, on the other hand, looked like a man perpetually ready to both please the world and be pleased by the world. He also smelled very strongly of oak and flowers and polished leather. He was a man who led by his scent. Not a bad one by any means, just a very strong one.

Albert shook his head as they left the shop. Things he would never understand. The _Malleus Maleficarum_ returned to the counter top. He would see to the forged bills of sale after dinner.

 

 

 

Dmitri found a discreet hotel not far from Albert’s shop and they set up their centre of operations in a third floor room. The view of the city was grand and the day was turning into a beautiful one.

Gustave dug through his bag and procured a book of poetry. It was a slim volume of late eighteenth century romantics. He nodded to himself, changed his coat, and said he was going off to a café for a few hours to read and then maybe he would do some work. Perhaps see a museum or two, if the day was heading in that direction. Should they arrange a place to meet for dinner?

An hour later Dmitri, restless in the hotel room, set off into the city. He traced old steps that he had taken thirty years ago. Looked at shops that had changed, admired recent works of building preservation and restoration. At one point he found himself up on Lindenhof Hill where Roman ruins and Carolingian ruins and ruins of ruins had once stood.

When he had been a boy his father had taken him up here. He had pointed to the old Augustinian Abbey and had explained what the reformation was. He had then traced the river with his finger down to the mouth of the lake. They counted bridges and the different waves of architecture that were visible. He could see the organisation and beautiful layout of the city. It seemed, to him, that the Swiss had been and always would be, a very organised people. The alpine Föhn was a non-entity and so the winds that Dmitri was used to in mountain valleys was absent.

His father had then taken him on a boat down the river to the lake and they had spent the day fishing. The Desgoffe-und-Taxis were not strict nobility in and of themselves – rather they had been raised to that status by the Villenueves. An old but poor title marrying low-blood money was a common story in the late nineteenth century. And in 1900, to nine year old Dmitri, it was merely a passing fact of life.

Because of this lack of nobility his father had never quite managed to quite the old habits of the middle class. He would regularly go to the cement factories to oversee production himself. He expanded his trade and his industry – keeping his hands perpetually dirty in the grimy matters of business.

This, however, was not what he had intended for his children. So, he ensured they received classical educations befitting their station. Dmitri was taught the rudiments of where the family money came from, but nothing in detail. He spent his days, instead, learning to hunt and fish and other gentlemen-like sports with his father. At night they would read. If he had been especially good he would be allowed into his father’s library after dinner and sit, by the fire, with a book, under the careful gaze of _Boy with Apple._

 

 

 

When he rounded a corner he spied a small café with a few chairs sitting out. At one was the unmistakable profile of the dandiest man in Europe. Dmitri scowled but found himself stalking over to the table regardless.

‘Have a good wander?’ Gustave asked, placing a bookmark between pages. They were well worn. Dmitri assumed that the man had the entire book memorized and could probably be relied upon to recite verses from it at convenient and inconvenient moments.

‘It was good enough. Have a good read?’

‘Oh yes. Some excellent work here – _I met a traveller from an antique land_ –‘

‘Yes, I’m sure they’re lovely.’

Gustave pushed the book over, Poetry is meant to be read aloud. You should try it sometime. He added, The world is too much with us; late and soon, / Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.’

‘Woodsworth doesn’t seem your style.’ The book was returned. ‘He certainly isn’t mine. Little fucker was a bit wet.’

‘He can be, but I think he has some beautiful lines. What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale / Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove / Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream / Shall with its murmur lull me into rest? / The earth is all before me.’

Dmitri responded with raised eyebrows and slightly pursed lips. Fine, Gustave huffed, ignore the beauty of the words. They’re really quite relaxing if you take time to listen to them. They give a sense of security and peace.

The count asked, ‘Did your family force poetry on you at a young age and now, with no children to pass the tradition on to, you force it upon the world at large? (And me in particular).’

The former concierge replied, ‘Hardly. My family wasn’t the sort to do that.’

‘What sort was your family, then?’

‘A hard working quiet sort of people. Shall we decide upon dinner or wait and see where the winds of fortune take us?’

‘You decide. I’m going to have a smoke.’

The remainder of the afternoon passed. Dmitri smoked, occasionally read, and sneered at his companion whenever the chance arose. Gustave drank his coffee, occasionally worked, and laughed whenever he thought it would most annoy the man opposite him. 

Altogether, it was pleasant, though neither would say it to the other. They left at twilight. They were shades in a city of shadows.

 

 

 

Dmitri, to himself, in the bathroom as he fixed his hair, ‘This will not do. None of this will do. I’m leaving on the first train in the morning and going far, far away and leaving this fucking fucker behind me and I will never think about him or see him again.’

Gustave, to himself, by the window as he waited for Dmitri to stop fiddling with his hair in the bathroom, ‘This will not do. None of this will do. But I don’t know how to make it so it will do instead of this strange, terribly annoying state of in between.’

 

 

 

Dinner was over and they were back upstairs having not made it farther than the hotel’s restaurant. It had served an acceptable soup and main but everything else was lack luster. Gustave was giving a monologue on all the failings of the staff and management in comparison with his pride and joy. Dmitri was only half listening and wondering if it would be possible to sneak away to the morning train with _Boy with Apple_ in tow.

They ordered a bottle of port and settled in for the night.

‘You snore,’ Dmitri complained as Gustave poured them both a glass. ‘We’re on opposite sides of the room and I can still hear you.’

‘Get your own room, then.’

‘And leave you alone with the painting? Fuck no.’

‘Then don’t complain. Here, let’s toast.’

It was to art, poetry, and comfortable trains.

The second toast was to Venice, Lutz, Zurich, and all the beautiful cities in the world.

The third was to the Grand Budapest Hotel, overly romantic ramblings of a deranged former concierge who needs to stop fucking staring and sitting on my bed you little prick, and good port.

There wasn’t a forth, mainly because Dmitri had said that they were stupid and pointless and why the fuck are they toasting? Are they in a fucking banquet hall? Are they at a fucking ball? Or are they in a fucking mediocre hotel in Zurich?

 

The count began talking about his father’s endless liquor collection and how he would siphon from it when he was sixteen and seventeen. His second step-father hadn’t been a drinker and so the room had collected a lot of dust during his mother’s third marriage.

Gustave leaned into a bed post and admired the laconic sprawl of the other man. 

Dmitri then talked about the other story about _Boy with Apple._ Not the one where Hoytl is disgustingly in love with the twit he painted. But the one where the twit was his son by some mistress or other. She might have been a duchess. Sources aren’t clear. It’s a very vague story.

Gustave, ‘I don’t like that one. It’s not as tragic. I feel like a painting as beautiful as _Boy with Apple,_ there must be a tragic back-story. Forbidden love, unrequited feelings, maddening genius – it’s all too perfect.’

Dmitri points, ‘You would say that. It’s a goddamn disgrace, that story.’

Gustave set his glass down. He leaned forward and frowned at Dmitri.

He said, ‘I have a question.’

‘What?’

‘Can I kiss you?’

‘ _What?_ ’

‘Can I kiss you?’

Silence. Dmitri’s mouth was slightly ajar. His glass was also set aside. There was an errant strand of hair dangling down the middle of his forehead.

At last, ‘no.’

The count’s brain was stuttering through scenarios. It was stuttering through answers. It was stuttering through occasional memories.

‘Oh.’

‘Because that’s fucked up.’

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘I’m going for a walk. You fucking stay here and make sure no one takes our painting.’

The door closed behind the count. It had begun to rain. It was pattering against the window making the only noise for the next twenty seconds. Until, out loud to the empty room, Gustave asked, When did it become _our_ painting?

 

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"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship."

\- Moby Dick 


	13. Of Flotsam and Jetsam

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An Exploration of Love from Sir Thomas Wyatt

– in parts and pieces and flotsam and jetsam. Compiled from 

the marked passages by a certain Monsieur G.H of the Grand Budapest Hotel. 

In a collection of Romantic Poetry willed to a certain Z. Mustafa of the same residence.  

 

And wilt thou leave me thus? 

Say nay, say nay, for shame, 

To save thee from the blame 

Of all my grief and grame; 

And wilt thou leave me thus? 

Say nay, say nay!

…

 In blind error when I did persevere, 

Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore, 

Hath taught me to set in trifles no store 

And scape forth, since liberty is lever. 

Therefore farewell; go trouble younger hearts 

And in me claim no more authority. 

With idle youth go use thy property 

And thereon spend thy many brittle darts, 

For hitherto though I have lost all my time, 

Me lusteth no longer rotten boughs to climb. 

…

Yet may I by no means my wearied mind

Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore

Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,

Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,

As well as I may spend his time in vain.

And graven with diamonds in letters plain

There is written, her fair neck round about:

Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame. 

…

 

 

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	14. Queen of Spades

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Dmitri could hear the former concierge running after him. Saying something about waiting and for fuck's sake it’s raining. God damnit Dmitri, it’s _pouring._  

Dmitri didn’t pause. He kept walking, his coat flaring out behind him, till at last Gustave caught up, took his shoulder, slowed him down till they were finally stopped under an overhang of a closed shop.

A bakery, Dmitri noticed. What the fuck is with me and my bad luck always being associated with bakeries? Maybe I missed my calling in life. Maybe I was supposed to be a businessman, a worker, like my father. Maybe I was supposed to be a baker.

Gustave was speaking. He was apologizing. He was saying something else. Dmitri was watching his face, his eyes, his mouth forming words. There was nothing to be heard, though.

Just the rain.

He said, ‘may I?’

Gustave blinked. Nodded. Thought, This has got to be one of the more awkward moments in my life.

Dmitri leaned in, pressed a quick kiss against Gustave’s lips, then pulled away, his face one of defiance. He said, _I_ was going for a walk. And turned and stalked back off into the night.

The former concierge naturally followed.

 

 

 

The streets were lit and they were glistening in that way that cobbles do in rain and gaslight. Occasional pamphlets and week old newspapers made their damp, windswept way to inevitable oblivion.

The war, Gustave was dimly aware, was ever marching onward.

Ahead of him Dmitri continued to stalk.

The walked past closed newsstands and government posters and shut up shops. The night felt heavy and discreet. All in all they were alone.

‘There’s talk,’ Dmitri said as Guztave approached. They paused by a bridge. Water was flowing ahead of them. The city was quiet and peaceful on all sides.

‘Talk?’

‘Of a new banking act to be passed. Allowing for anonymous numbered bank accounts to be held here. It limits the information to be shared with third parties.’

‘Oh.’

The count turned, head tilted to the side. He seemed to be implying something. Gustave didn’t follow. There were fat raindrops hitting his head, rolling down his cheeks.

‘If I were you, is all I am saying.’ Dmitri turned back around again.

‘Thank you. Though I'm a little surprised, I'll admit.’

‘Protecting family assets. I’ll get that money off of you one day. Until then, I’d rather it stay in private, safe hands than be confiscated by government forces – both ours or theirs.’

‘I thought you were all comfy and in with the party. Or at least our local division.’

‘I was following the grand Lutz tradition of embezzlement.’

Gustave raised his eyebrows, Oh, that would be why you left town so quickly. And here I thought I was the cause of it.

‘It’s wet,’ the count declared.

‘Verily.’

‘Let’s go.’

They went.

In fact, they were nearing Albert’s shop and were slowing down as they approached the corner. Before they turned Dmitri said, sort of, more to himself than to Gustave, but he said it none the less, ‘You know why it’s wrong, right?’

Gustave assumed he knew what was being discussed. He replied that he had never been one for arbitrary sexual morals. Really, just look at his life.

Dmitri snorted and owned that this was true.

They turned the corner.

Albert’s shop was dark. No light, no movement, only one very broken door and a sidewalk covered in shards of glass.

 

 

When they entred the cool, damp air followed them in. There was a forced stillness in the shop. On the counter was the beloved _M_ _alleus Maleficarum –_ now missing several chunks of pages. 

Face down on the floor was the old man. Missing were Gustave’s papers.

‘I think we’ve been tracked.’ Gustave said, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. Dmitri stood, looming over the body before kneeling to inspect the dead man’s hands.

‘He appears to be holding something. One moment.’ The fingers were pried open and a sheet of paper retrieved. He stood, dusted his trouser legs.

‘What is it?’

‘A name. M Phillip des Temps.’

‘Des Temps?’

‘Probably not his real name. I’m assuming this is our man. We should probably go, Zubrowka is only two days away.’

‘And,’ Gustave motioned to the retreating view of the shop. ‘We know Diefenbach isn’t there.’

‘If he went after Albert he’ll go after this Des Temps fellow.’

‘Do you still have your gun?’

‘Always.'

‘Good.’

 

 

In their hotel room they each dove behind their respective books. The atmosphere clung like a sheer dress – Gustave wasn’t sure if the look was flattering or not. He read a poem. Then re-read because he damn well didn’t read it the first time around.

Later, after they turned lights off and settled in for a night of listening to the rain and trying to sleep, Dmitri said, 'Best pretend that this night didn’t happen, right?'

‘I don’t know about that. Besides the body that we didn’t find, of course.’

There was the sound of sheets shifting and a bed being moved in.

Dmitri, harshly, ‘I’m not – you know.’

‘Of course.’

‘You’re being fucking facetious.’

‘Dmitri.’

‘What?’

‘Go to sleep. It’s late.’

They slept.

In the morning they dressed, ate breakfast, and left on the first train out of Zurich for Lutz.

 

 

 

‘About the other night-‘ Gustave began as they opened the oft fought over deck of cards.

‘What about it?’ Dmitri shuffled the cards. Then shuffled them again. He made two bridges. Continued shuffling. Gustave watched.

‘I wanted to apologize-‘

‘Don’t worry about it. Here, you’re first.’

Gustave took the trick. He broke hearts.

Dmitri played a four. Gustave took that trick, too. He played another heart.

‘You’re fucking shooting the goddamned moon aren’t you?’ Dmitri grumbled.

‘I don’t know.’

The former concierge smiled at the count. Took the trick. Played another heart. Dmitri looked at his hand. Looked at the card. Muttered under his breath. Played a club. Gustave scooped it up.

‘This is fucking pointless.’

‘You’re just a sore loser, Dmitri.’

Another trick taken up.

‘It’s because there’s only two of us. The game isn’t played right when there’s only two.’

‘Sore loser.'

The queen of spades was on the table. Dmitri muttered, _Bitch,_ and played a club, helplessly.

They continued as the train puffed into mountains. Passing through valleys and corridors and through dense rock and loamy soil.

By the early afternoon they had exhausted the card deck and had moved on to speed completing the crossword section of a week old edition of the Trans-Alpine Yodel.

Gustave wondered about this. This _this_ this-ness. Dmitri was tapping his finger on the table and biting the end of the pencil. Gustave watched the way the fingers moved. The way the eyebrows furrowed and the way the mouth was in its usual frown.

This _this-ness_ was ridiculous. He sighed and sat back. Dmitri motioned to the unfinished work between them, ‘you have to do your share.’

‘You’re better at them.’

‘Nonsense. You’re fucking giving up, come on.’

Dmitri was distracted. He was reading the clues. He thought about Gustave leaning over the table then didn’t think about it. Now that the subject had been breached there was no going back. Instead, it was akin to a crack in the ice. With pointed weight near the edge it would only grow bigger, more divisive, till at last they would both fall through. And like hell was Dmitri letting that happen.

He wrote in an answer to twelve across. The attempt at beating their previous time had been abandoned. Now, it was route. It was habit. It was necessity. Especially because Gustave was currently waxing poetic about the Nebelsbad Colonnade. Only Gustave fucking H would wax poetic about the godforsaken fucking Colonnade.

Oh my fucking god.

Dmitri decided that he must be suffering from insanity. That must be it. Insanity for the last forty-two years.

Excellent.

He answered nine down.

Gustave leaned in, looked over the paper, pointed to a number, ‘I know that one. It’s “treble clef”.’ Dmitri duly added it.

Gustave pulled back again. Thought, This is ridiculous. I am acting like a fourteen-year old boy who has just discovered the spring. This is no way for a self-respecting concierge, albeit former, of the Grand Budapest Hotel to act. He decided that he was going stop. A book was procured. He read the rest of the afternoon away.

 

 

Really, Dmitri put it down to the fact that Gustave’s lack of morality was contagious. First, he was house breaking and stealing paintings in person instead of hiring someone to do it, then he was on the run from a gun toting insane art thief, then he was accessory to murder after the fact – again in person.

But, in the early hours of the morning, he had to admit that maybe morality wasn’t the issue at hand. Since, he told himself, I am not a very moral person when I take time to remember to think about it. Which is not often, but has been more so because for some reason Gustave makes me think about these things I’d rather not contemplate. And damn the fucking fucker and all of his fucking aaagh.

Asshole.

But, despite all of that, now that he was being pushed up against the bunks, he put it down to contagious immorality because it was the most tangible reason he had to hand. And all right, he might have been the one to begin it. Sort of. He called it an act of desperation because Gustave had spent the evening being so fucking Gustave-ish and it had been frustrating and then there had been some fucking poetry by some fucking dead Roman and Dmitri had had the distinct feeling that Gustave had been saying something with it. But now neither were speaking much, a little too occupied with clothing. And mouths. Because apparently the only way to not have poetry spouted at you is to kiss the fucking man.

This was, Dmitri knew, disgusting. But he wasn’t going to stop at the moment because he did have some manners. And Gustave seemed to be enjoying himself, which was something.

The younger man ended up on his back, sideways, on the bottom bunk with his shirt undone and shoes lost somewhere along the way.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Dmitri hissed. ‘This is fucking ridiculous.’ A gasp, Gustave’s mouth was on his neck kissing up to his ear, along his jaw. Back down the other side, sucking at the nape, pulling Dmitri’s body up towards his.

The bed was a bit small. They kept sort of half-sliding out of it. This became an issue when trousers were unbuttoned and pushed down and the count could feel the wood biting into his lower back, which really wasn’t helped by the extra weight on top of him.

A pause as they maneuvered themselves into the proper position. There were thoughts racing – things like, what the fuck, who the fuck, oh fuck, is he going to fuck me, when the fuck, oh fuck fuck _fuck._

Gustave murmured that perhaps Dmitri could roll over. The younger man complied, making distinct grumbling complaints as he did. Gustave found himself kneeling between partially spread legs, leaned forward and dropped kisses down Dmitri’s shoulders. His hand slid down the other man’s side to his hips then between his legs.

There was a jar of oil Gustave had procured from somewhere through some means Dmitri didn’t want to contemplate. This, of course, brought to mind the fact that Gustave had been walking around with it thinking about _this._

Dmitri pressed his face into the pillow, muffling a moan.

Fingers were fucking their way into him. He had decided he wasn’t going to show how much he was enjoying it. That decision was abandoned with abandon. Gustave hummed and kissed down Dmitri’s spine, nipped his way back up, worked his fingers in and out till the count was gasping, very quietly, into the sheets.

They probably shouldn’t be doing this on a train. Dmitri said this out loud in-between moans. Gustave said, Yes, probably you’re right. Should we stop?

No. No, there was no need, they already where anyway.

Gustave pulled Dmitri’s hips up so he was kneeling. He whispered, You’re very handsome. Positively delightful.

‘Just fucking get on with it.’ A pause. ‘And don’t say shit like that.’

‘Why ever not? It’s true.’

‘Just don’t.’

‘All right.’

When the fingers were slid out the count hissed, legs spreading a little wider. He didn’t think about why that was. A moment later and he was rolled back over onto his back and was thinking oh no. Oh no, no, no, I am not looking at him while this happens that would be fucking _queer_.

Gustave leaned down again, peppering kisses over Dmitri’s shoulders before pulling his hips up and carefully, why the fuck was he being so careful – that wasn’t how these things happened Dmitri was sure of it, pushing himself in.

‘Are you all right, darling?’

‘Yes. Keep going. Fuck off. Fuck.’

‘All right, if you insist.’

The rhythm that was set had Dmitri biting into his arm and trying to not moan, to not writhe – despite the fact that his free hand was gripping sheets, pulling at them, jerking his hips forward, trying to burry himself in the feeling of endlessly falling. There ought to be a hymn written to it. That feeling. He crossed out that thought. His eyes were shut then they were open and god fucking shitting hell Gustave was still fucking him. And his legs were around the wretched man’s waist and fuck what was this?

‘You’re delightful, darling.’

‘I thought I told you none of this bull shit talk.’

‘Quite right, my apologies. But it still remains true.’

A hand was moved between them and began stroking Dmitri, making his head jerk sideways so he could bite the inside of his cheek and repeat to himself: _thin walls, thin walls, the walls are fucking thin fucking fuck don’t fucking say a goddamned fucking thing oh shit oh shit oh fuck_ –

It came out as a thin whine. Gustave was now pitched half over him, hips stuttering forward, mouth pressing into Dmitri’s skin and then they were both endlessly falling and the curses escaped Dmitri’s lips only to be permanently, silently imprinted into Gustave’s mouth, into his neck and shoulders and they were shuddering and disentangling from one another and it was night and the train was quiet and the countryside was from a portrait, minus the party check points, and Dmitri thought it all a bit too much.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Of His Own Accord

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Lutz train station. Lutz train station, two men, one painting, one name of a M des Temps of Zubrowka. 

They exited and hailed a cab, suggested the Old Town as maybe as good a place as any to begin. Dmitri spent the cab ride not looking out the window and when they were deposited by the old town clock he hugged the sides of it.

‘They’re fucking everywhere,’ he muttered. ‘And my face isn’t exactly an unknown one.’

‘Don’t worry darling, we’ll get that sorted too. Maybe next time don’t take money from people who can kill you.’

‘Says you of all people. Come on, I see the high commissioner.’

They duck down an alley way and loose themselves in the old quarter. There was a thin layer of snow. They left footprints, dark and murky, they left no other trace. Not even a whiff of l’air de panache.

 

 

 

Phillip des Temps (or, Phillip des Temps en Temp as Dmitri had taken to calling him) was located in one of the dingier areas of old Town Lutz.

He was unsurprised to see them in his doorway looking bedraggled and, one of them, distinctly _annoyed._

‘Are you M Gustave H of the Grand Budapest Hotel?’ He asked once the door was firmly shut against wind and kicked up snow.

‘Yes.’

‘Come this way.’

Gustave turned to Dmitri, ‘this always happens.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

They walked further into the shop. Past paper supplies and ink and books and binding and stamps and more paper. Despite the autumn daylight the shop was dim. The light was thin, seedy, drooping.

Phillip led them to a back room, unlocked the several locks, and let them in.

‘You’re here because of Nascimbene, aren’t you?’ He asked, taking a seat at a large work bench.

Gustave replied that yes, they were.

‘I thought I’d be seeing you at some point.’ A glance over the former concierge’s shoulder to the angry looking man with black hair. Phillip’s smile widened. ‘Ah. Desgoffe-und-Taxis, my condolences about your mother. A great woman, I always felt.’ He bowed his head, turned back to Gustave. ‘What is it, exactly that you want.’

‘Who forged the fucking bills of sale?’

‘Oh, me, of course. Who told you? It was Albert, wasn’t it? Poor man. Poor man.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

Gustave stared. Then snarled, ‘look, I just want some goddamn proof that the documents are forged.’

‘Why should I provide you with that?’

‘Casue if you don’t-‘ he paused. Thought about it. The thoughts lingered and didn’t come to anything conclusive.

Dmitri stepped forward.

‘Cause if you don’t I’ll blast your fucking useless face off of your fucking useless body.’

‘A true son of Celine.’

‘If you talk about my mother I’ll _cut_ your fucking face off.’

‘Why the change?’

‘It’ll make it more painful.’

Phillip considered his options. He found them severely limited. ‘If I comply?’

‘You get to keep your ugly mug.’

‘What else?’

Dmitri blinked. It seemed to imply, What else is there?

‘Well, you’re still alive that way, darling.’ Gustave offered. Phillip didn’t appear pleased.

Silence stretched on. Phillip finally deflated, breath through his teeth as he wrenched open a drawer and pulled out a letter.

‘Here,’ he handed it over. ‘I wouldn’t mind some compensation for it, though. You know, I normally would get something from Nascimbene in a year’s time.’

Dmitri, ‘We went over this, your compensation is that your fucking face is still attached –‘

‘Of course,’ Gustave elbowed the younger man out of the way. ‘I’m always glad to help a friend. Have I told you what a lovely suit your wearing?’

‘For fucking fuck’s sake –‘

‘It really brings out your eyes.’

‘I can’t believe you’re spending _my_ money on this.’

Phillip took the money. He replied, Oh this old thing? Thank you, though. My wife said it went with my hair.

It does, it does, the former concierge agreed. Really, the blue is you.

Dmitri fumed in a corner.

 

 

 

‘You’re such a fucking queer,’ the count hissed as they stalked back out onto the street. ‘Fucking hell you gave him fucking money for that shit. He would have given it without paying – ‘

‘Yes, but you never know when he might be useful. Never burn bridges. And really, being nice doesn’t cost anything. You ought to try it occasionally.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Later dear, we’re in public.’

Dmitri dead-fished mouth for half a block before muttering a stream of curse words. Gustave just laughed and said that the day was finally sunny. They’ve had such ill luck with weather until now. Also, Dmitri, how did a man from your class pick up a vocabulary that would put a sailor to shame?

Dormitory living from a young age, it was explained. You think I’m bad? Listen to a prefect curse out a fellow student and your ears will sting for days.

It was a procession towards the funicular that would take them up to the Grand Budapest. They passed by little bakeries and nick-knack shops and street corner food and everything in between. Rounding a corner Gustave looked across the street and found himself staring at the familiar, yet unwanted face of Ansgar von Diefenbach.

The art thief pointed, yelled, _You._  

The two men took off running leaving darkening footprints in half melted snow.

 

 

Gustave, ‘I’m too out of shape for this.’

Dmitri, ‘What did you do last time?’

Gustave, ‘We took a train. Third class. And a sled for a while. A snowmobile. There was really only a limited need for running. Hold it, I need a breather.’

They stopped and Gustave gasped with hands on knees, head hanging low, sucking in gulps of air. Dmitri wasn’t faring much better. They both looked back and saw an empty street.

‘We need to get in a cab, now.’ Gustave wheezed.

Dmitri agreed.

They continued running.

 

 

The first cab they ran into (literally in Dmitri’s case) they hailed and slid into the back. Gustave huffed, To the Grand Budapest, don’t stop for anything. Including the police.

Dmitri muttered, Especially the police.

Gustave grinned at him. Dmitri jabbed him in the side.

‘You’ve got sharp elbows.’

‘Fucking right I have sharp elbows.’

The cab driver, ‘I think there’s someone following us.’

They both turned and looked through the back window. Another cab was trailering after them and in it, next to the driver’s seat, was Ansgar von Diefenbach.

‘That nefarious little bastard,’ whispered the former concierge.

‘That fucking piece of shit,’ replied the count.

The cab driver decided that this was possibly one of the odder moments in his life.

As they began to climb up the mountain towards the hotel Ansgar swerved his car up so it was next to them on the road. Snow was beginning to fall a little harder and the cab driver had begun to whisper prayers under his breath. From his rear view mirror dangled a picture of a local saint. Gustave thought that those aren’t really the things that save you in situations like this. The things that save you are the fact that Dmitri is pulling out his gun and complaining about the fucker who keeps trying when he should know it’s a lost cause besides it’s _his_ fucking painting not anyone else’s goddamnit.

The car window was lowered and he fired a shot, it hit the passenger headrest in Diefenbach’s car. The art thief pulled out a gun and began returning fire. Gustave ducked down, clutching _Boy with Apple_  to his chest.

‘Why does this always happen?’ He shouted up.

‘Because we’re living in a fucking movie or some shit like that. Fucking hell he almost got me.’

‘I don’t like this.’

‘I’m not on a fucking vacation right now either.’

‘How close was he?’

‘What?’

‘When he almost hit you. How close was he?’

‘I don’t fucking know. It was close. Oh fuck he’s aiming at the tires.’

Gustave stared up at the car ceiling. He thought about his life. He thought about Zero. Well, at least his favourite lobby boy and Agatha would be provided for. That was a consolation. However, the thought of dying in a fiery, car-flying-off-a-cliff, scenario wasn’t one he was keen on.

‘I had always hoped to look good for my funeral. I mean, I might be old, but at least my body would be whole and not a charred cinder.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Dying in a car explosion caused by us losing a tire and going over a cliff. You stopped shooting at him.’

‘That’s cause I hit the driver and he went into a snow bank. Diefenbach was still alive, though.’

Gustave crawled back up to the back seat.

‘Well,’ he huffed. ‘That’s good I suppose.’

‘He’ll still get up to the hotel.’

The cab driver jabbed his finger out the back window. They turned, looked, and found Diefenbach still following them – this time on a motorbike.

Gustave declared he was having _distinct_ deja-vous. Also, if they survived this, he was going to will _Boy with Apple_ to Dmitri since he would most likely die before the count. Dmitri just muttered that he shouldn't say shit and returned to trying to shoot the art thief.

 

 

 

 _Boy with Apple,_ yet another story. This story was not as well known, mostly because unattainable love and strife was more appealing than anything else. However, this version was one that Madame D subscribed to more than her son. According to legend there was a grave site near the old Hoytl home in the lowlands and upon a summer’s night the young artist would go and sit by it and wonder to himself who was buried underneath the unmarked slab.

One night, as a young man, he fell asleep atop this lonesome northern hillside and had a dream. In the dream there were bells and chanting – as if in a church with the most beautiful choir in Christendom around him. He looked and saw an alter on top of the hill, on either side were linden trees. He walked up the hill and before him, laid out upon the alter, was a beautiful young man, dead, slain it was told to him. Tending to the young man was an elderly woman with striking grey hair and golden eyes. From a basket, hanging upon her arm, she plucked an apple. It was as envy and as rotten as hate. She placed it in the boy’s hand.

‘The boy suffered as we all do,’ she explained to Hoytl.

‘Suffered what?’

‘From the greatest of all evils. The root of all evils. He loved, but then he lost, he was wealthy, and then he was poor, he was proud, never humble, he was everything and yet he was nothing.’

When Hoytl woke he found in his hand an apple and upon his cheeks, tears.

He wandered through the streets of Amsterdam weeping. He wandered through the streets of Amsterdam mindless, soulless. He wandered and his relatives worried that was mad, that he was driven by some unseen force. He wandered till there were holes in his boots and stockings and his paint sat dry and unused. He wandered until every cobble was known, until every sight had been sightlessly seen. He wandered until! Until one day, as he wept with a jade apple in hand, he turned and saw a young girl with a strange mark upon her face, and suddenly then he knew that the only solution to his woe was to paint.

Paint and paint and paint until there was nothing left to paint and all the feelings that walled his mind and soul were gone and he was baptized anew, white washed and covered in a coat of purity, and he would be, at last, in peace.

When Madame D told her son this version of the story of the painting the young man had only laughed and scoffed and said that things like this didn’t happen in real life. Things like this only happen in fairy tales and myths and legends.

‘In a way that all of life is a fairy tale. Ours are - they're just gilded more than the fairy tales of others,’ Madame D had replied.

‘If you believe that, mother, then you are a goddamned fool.’

 

 

 

Dmitri and Gustave practically rolled out of the cab, threw money at the driver, and barreled up the steps of the Grand Budapest Hotel. Behind them was Diefenbach, foaming at the mouth and snarling curse words in three different languages – none of them Zubrowkan.

‘Up the stairs, up the stairs,’ Gustave panted as they ran past the front desk and a stunned Zero. They jogged up, around bannisters and poles and up more. Occasionally Dmitri and Diefenbach would stop and take pot-shots at each other. Gustave didn’t pretend to understand. Boys and their guns.

By the third floor they were exhausted and careening towards Imperial Suite. Dmitri opened the door and ducked in, Gustave followed and he was followed by Diefenbach who entered at high speed, barreled into Gustave and, there was a smash, both went flying out the window.

  

 _Boy with Apple_ was left, bereft, on the floor. 

A curtain fluttered in the cold autumn breeze.

Sunlight dazzled and glittered on shards of glass.

 _Fuck_ was uttered into still air.

 

Dmitri leaned out and looked down. Both men were dangling, fingers blotchy red and forced white as they clung to the edge of crenellation that decorated the outside of the Grand Budapest.

Gustave tried to kick Diefenbach. He missed. Diefenbach tried to kick Gustave. He also missed. Dmitri found a lamp, unplugged it, and went to the window. With the foot of the base he began industriously whacking the fingers of the art thief. He said, conversationally to Gustave, ‘I ran out of bullets. Hold on a little longer, let me take care of this fucker first.’

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Diefenbach growled up.

‘You stole _my_ painting, you chased me out of Venice, you pursued us across Italy, you killed an old family friend, you tried to kill us, and you broke a window of _my_ fucking hotel. What the fuck do you think I’m fucking doing?’

‘What about this fucking ass over here?’ Diefenbach glared at Gustave.

‘He didn’t do any of the above.’ A beat. He stopped jabbing Diefenbach’s fingers. ‘Well, he did steal my painting and made off with my fortune. But I’ll deal with that later.’

It was then that Diefenbach’s fingers slipped; quite of their own accord. He fell.

 

 

Gustave would later say, to no one really, but still, he would say that he hadn’t been watching Diefenbach all that much and when the man had slipped he had known when he had hit the stone below not so much by the sound, which had been sickening, but by the change of Dmitri’s expression. Eyebrows had gone up and his face expressed a sentiment that ran along the lines of “oh, so that’s what people look like after they’ve fallen four stories down to their death. Fascinating”.

 

 

Gustave was pulled up by a frantic Zero and Agatha. When he was on the floor of the hotel room he gasped, ‘Where is it?’

‘Where is what, M Gustave?’

‘ _Boy with Apple?_ ’

‘Uh, I think-‘

Agatha coughed. She pointed to the door, ‘Mr Desgoffe-und-Taxis walked out with it.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’

 

 


	16. It Signifies

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

 

 

Dmitri stood in the hotel lobby. It was midday. Midday in off-season in the middle of the beginning of a war. Still, there were people. There were the usual old women who showed up more for Gustave than the baths or hot springs or anything else the hotel had to offer. There were the business men who loitered about the bar at three in the afternoon and had big bellies and grey beards. There were the socialites and their mothers who were avoiding the dramas of the End of Season down in Lutz. Most were there for the name of the hotel, for the winter sports, which were just beginning, or, more commonly, for the waters.

The Turkish baths and spas had been added after 1918. 1920, to be exact as they had been installed for the returning service men who found them beneficial for their recovering health. Dmitri, despite his general dislike of the man, had to admit that his third step-father had been considerate in that way.

He looked down to his hands. _Boy with Apple_ stared back up at him. He could hear Gustave yelling something in the distance that sounded suspiciously like ‘you better not fucking run off with that Dmitri!’

He looked up.

When he had been nine he used to play in the foyer and one of the staff members, Jan T, had been kind and would steal sweets for him from the kitchens. When he and his sisters had been forgotten in their mother’s whirlwind life Jan would tell them scary stories and let them stay in the lobby and play where none of the other children could play. He had died at some point, Dmitri realized. Or else he had retired. Either way, all the faces here were not the faces he sometimes remembered.

Gustave was standing in front of him, panting and looking pink in the face.

‘Marguerite and I would argue over this painting. When we were younger.’

Gustave opened his mouth then closed it. He repeated the act a second time.

‘We would take bets on who mother would leave it to. I always bet on myself, of course, but really I thought she would give it Laetizia. All academic, now, those bets.’

Gustave looked uncomfortable.

‘Here,’ the painting was thrust towards the older man. ‘I don’t want it anymore.’

‘What?’

‘I said I don’t want it anymore. Fucking hell, can’t you listen?’

‘I heard – I just –‘

‘I have to go.’ He side stepped around the former concierge and walked towards the front. There were people staring. He recognized quite a few of the guests. Most were part of the _ladies that lunch_ group that his mother had been so keen on in Lutz. Vultures in fancy dress.

Footsteps followed and Gustave grabbed his arm, Wait, Dmitri. He shook him off. Gustave sighed. Please, he said, wait. Where are you going?

‘Back to Venice. Or maybe Paris. Or maybe London. I don’t fucking know. Somewhere.’

‘Stay.’

‘I can’t.’

Gustave glanced around, hissed, ‘Look just for one night. Then you can go. This isn’t a barracks anymore. The party sort of ignores us. The war's moved north a bit, anyhow. Leave tomorrow.' 

Dmitri looked out the front doors. October skies were somber. Someone was reading a newspaper and the headlines were about troop movements and the possibility of reinstating the draft.

‘Fine.’ He held up a finger in Gustave’s slowly spreading _pleased_ expression. ‘ _One_ night. I’ll wire my sister and let her know we’re – I’m alive.’

‘She’s a charming woman.’

‘Fuck off, Gustave.’

‘Never. Now, I think we all deserve the finest champagne the hotel has and a fantastically large meal. What think you?’

Dmitri glared. Gustave smiled. It was settled.

Sort of.

 

 

 

Night oozed in and _Boy with Apple_ was behind the front desk watching the hotel sink into the evening with benign eye.

Zero and Agatha were on the rooftop with hot cocoa and gazing up at the stars.

Agatha said something about the fate of the stars guiding the fate of manking. Zero said he didn’t believe in any of that. He had been born under a lucky star, he had been told as a boy. And Agatha turned to him and said, Well, you’re lucky now. 

They were holding hands. Zero was still in his concierge’s uniform and Agatha was covered in flour. There was snow in their hair. They were sharing a blanket. They were wondering what the winter would bring.

Gustave was sitting by the window of his room. Dmitri, sprawled across the bed as if he owned it, snored into a pillow. The moon was half hidden behind clouds and there was probably going to be a storm. Winter was going to be long, the former concierge thought, and it was going to be cold and dark and harsh.

He took a sip of brandy. Set the glass aside. With a deep sigh he stood and returned to the bed, pushed Dmitri over, and climbed back under covers.

‘Your feet are fucking freezing.’ The count grumbled.

‘I was watching the snow.’

‘Didn’t mean you had to become one with the element.’

‘Well, perhaps if you didn’t take over the entire bed and steal the sheets –‘

‘I did no such thing.’

Gustave smiled, said that Dmitri was being a dear. Dmitri glared, said that Gustave was doing it again. That spouting of romantic bull shit which was strictly unnecessary. They fell asleep.

It continued to snow.

 

 

 

 

 

‘Look, I’ll send you a post card if that’ll make you feel better.’

‘Darling, you don’t have to go.’

‘Yes, I do. You aren’t stupid Gustave, so don’t fucking act like it. It’s goddamn annoying. And if I come back and find this place a fucking wreck I’ll cut you. You hear me?'

‘I hear you.’ The former concierge pulled out a small wrapped present. He handed it over. ‘Open it up on the train.’

‘Is it a book of romantic poetry?’

Gustave just offered Dmitri his hand.

‘It’s a book of fucking romantic poetry. You get my fortune and this is all I get? Thanks, Gustave, you prick.’

‘Anytime, Dmitri. You should try reading it, you might find that you like it.’

The count grumbled but shook Gustave’s hand regardless. He tapped his hat, said for Gustave to have a good war and don’t go and get shot because someone has to look after the Grand Budapest, and he’ll see him later. Sometime.

When he left Gustave watched until the car was out of sight. He then went to the front desk and asked about all the happenings that had gone on while he had been out of town. He didn’t look up at the painting. He told Zero that he had done a good job with the hotel. That he was proud of him. He then went and drank and ate and danced with his guests. He didn’t talk about his travels. He didn’t recite poetry.

 

 

When he went to bed, alone for once, he found a lighter on the bed stand and a pack of rolling paper under his bed. Picking them up and placing them in a desk drawer he figured that this was the best way. Keep everything safe until after the war. Then, maybe, well, they’d just have to see.

October was ending harsher than it had begun.

That was, after all, the nature of weather.

But Gustave couldn’t help but wonder, as he fell asleep that night, if perhaps it didn’t signify.

These things usually do.

 

 

.  .  .

 

.  .  .

 

. .

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank y'all for coming along on this little ride. I think most enjoyed it - at least those I've heard from - and I want to thank you for leaving comments. They mean to the world to me. 
> 
> Cheers! And I'll catch you on the flip side.


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